THE  TEACHERS 

>  i.e.  ;i.;f.f,t;i^ 


ALICE    O'GRADY 


THE  TEACHERS' 
STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 


THE  TEACHERS 
STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 


By 

Alice  O'Grady,  of  the  Kindergarten  Department 

Teachers  College,  and  Frances  Throop, 

of  the  Pic  hard  School,  Chicago, 

Illinois 


fed 


RAND    McNALLY  &  COMPANY 
CHICAGO  NEW  YORK 


The  Story  Tellers  Book 

Copyright,  1012,  by 

Rand,    McNally   &   Company 

The  Teachers'  Story  Teller's  Book 

Copyright,  JQI3<  by 

Rand,    McNally   &    Company 


gtte    ^onb-"gttc|laUvi   $>rc»« 


INTRODUCTION 

The  study  of  stories  for  children  during  the  past  few 
years  has  resulted  in  the  production  of  many  excellent 
books  of  tales,  both  single  and  in  such  series  as  the 
Fairy  Ring  and  Magic  Casements,  and  the  various 
"Tree"  books  by  Clifton  Johnson. 

Money  to  own  a  library  of  these  source  books,  how- 
ever, and  time  to  select  from  many  volumes  the  few  de- 
sired stories,  are  seldom  available,  and  as  yet  there  has 
been  published  no  book  collecting  only  the  simpler  old 
tales,  providing  a  story  teller's  book  for  home  and  school. 

The  need  of  such  a  collection  has  been  felt  by  the 
editors,  and  in  this  little  volume  they  have  endeavored 
to  supply  it.  Here  the  teacher  with  the  limited 
exchequer  may  find  gathered  in  one  collection  a  simple 
and  selected  group  of  stories.  These  stories,  beginning 
with  short  narrative  to  follow  the  nursery  rhyme  and 
moving  through  more  developed  tales,  both  in  struc- 
ture and  content  are  intended  to  supply  literature 
for  children  from  four  to  eleven  years  of  age.  In 
other  words,  from  the  kindergarten  to  the  fifth  grade. 

Therefore  the  first  stories  in  the  book  are  short  and 
often  interspersed  with  verse.  Then  come  the  simpler 
folk  tales  and,  last  of  all,  stories  that  are  longer  and 
contain  more  detail  and  more  experience.  These  are 
followed  by  the  fairy  tale  and  fable,  which  belong  to 
children  of  a  larger  growth . 

In  several  instances  two  versions  of  a  folk  tale  have 
been  given,  both  versions  being  in  current  use.  But 
in  every  case  the  first  given  is  considered  the  better  one. 


T1JK  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 


The  editors  hope  that  the  stories  will  be  told  rather 
than  read,  at  least  in  the  kindergarten  and  early 
grades.  For  with  little  children,  especially,  the  love  of 
story  must  be  communicated  by  the  minnesinger,  to  the 
eye  as  well  as  to  the  ear.  The  story  teller  should  be 
an  artist  in  interpretation,  presenting  the  story  in  the 
most  simple  and  natural  manner.  The  listeners  must 
be  charmed  with  ballad  and  tale.  Incident  and  char- 
acter must  live  again  by  the  magic  of  the  living  voice. 
Since  the  form  of  the  story  contributes  a  large  part  of 
its  literary  value,  it  is  best  to  learn  the  story  as  it  is 
written,  then  to  interpret  it  as  we  understand  it. 

The  function  of  literature  is  not  directly  to  inform 
or  to  instruct,  but  to  delight  and  to  cultivate  through 
the  actual  experiences  of  pure,  wholesome  joy;  there- 
fore the  story  teller's  real  teaching  lies  in  the  uncon- 
scious sense  of  meaning,  humor,  content,  and  above 
all  beauty,  which  he  awakens. 

Some  of  the  books  from  which  stories  were  taken  con- 
tain other  stories  which  a  teacher  would  be  glad  to  use. 
Among  these  are  Prince  Dimple  and  his  Every-day 
Doings  and  Prince  Dimple  and  his  Further  Doings, 
Mrs.  Paull;  the  "Arabella  and  Araminta"  stories, 
Gertrude  Smith;  Mother  Stories,  Maud  Lindsay;  For 
the  Children's  Hour,  Bailey  and  Lewis;  Child  Life  in 
Prose,  Whittier;  Folk  Stories  and  Fables,  James  Bald- 
win; Classic  Stories  for  the  Little  Ones.  Lida  Brown 
McMurry;  English  Fairy  Talcs,  Joseph  Jacobs;  Cossack 
Fairy  Tales,  R.  Nesbit  Bain;  and  Fairy  Ring  and 
( 'asements,  Wiggin  and  Smith. 


THE  TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 


PAGE 


Christmas  Eve n 

Christmas  Morning 13 

The  Christmas  Tree 15 

The  "Wake- Up"  Story 17 

The  "  Go-Sleep  "  Story 20 

The  Sleepy  Song 22 

Soap-bubble  Story 24 

Sleepy-time  Story 27 

Christmas  Story 33 

The  Birthday  Party 41 

Five  Little  Brothers 48 

The  Cat  and  the  Mouse 49 

The  Robber  Kitten 51 

The  Three  Billy  Goats  Gruff 53 

The  Little  Red  Hen 55 

The  Little  Red  Hen  and  the  Grain  of  Wheat       .  5  7 

The  Old  Woman  and  her  Pig 59 

The  Little  Gray  Pony 65 

The  Wind's  Work 70 

Chicken  Licken 75 

The  Old  Woman  who  lived  in  a  Vinegar  Bottle  .  78 

Johnny  and  the  Three  Goats 83 

Johnny-Cake 86 

Titty  Mouse  and  Tatty  Mouse 91 

The  Story  of  the  Three  Bears 95 

Golden  Hair  and  the  Three  Bears 100 

The  Three  Little  Pigs 105 

The  Story  of  the  Three  Little  Pigs       .      .      .      .  no 

7 


8  THE  TABLE  OF  CONTEXTS 

PAGE 

The  Sheep  and  the  Pig  that  built  the  House  .  115 

Drakesbill 119 

Mr.  Miacca 127 

The  Street  Musicians 130 

Robin  Redbreast 137 

Wee  Robin's  Christmas  Day 138 

Sir  Robin 14: 

The  Big  Red  Apple 142 

Blunder 148 

A  Fairy  in  Ann  or 159 

The  Magpie's  Nest 160 

The  Hop-about  Man 162 

The  Fox  and  the  Rooster 174 

Tit  for  Tat 177 

A  Good  Thanksgiving .      .  180 

Praise  God 182 

Anders'  New  Cap 182 

Who  stole  the  Bird's  Nest? 188 

The  Straw  Ox 192 

Nursery  Song 199 

The  Stars  in  the  Sky 201 

The  Fairies  of  Caldon  Low 206 

Finding  a  Dark  Place 21  ] 

Mabel  on  Midsummer  Day 212 

Oeyvind  and  Marit 222 

The  Fairies 233 

The  Half-Chick 236 

The  Discontented  Tree 242 

The  Three  Little  Christmas  Trees  that  grew  on 

the  Hill 245 


THE  TABLE  OF  CONTENTS  9 


TAGE 


The  Snow  Bird's  Song 247 

The  Night  before  Christmas 249 

Snow-White  and  Rose-Red 253 

One-Eye,  Two-Eyes,  and  Three-Eyes  .      ...  263 

The  Hut  in  the  Forest 273 

The  Greedy  Shepherd 281 

The  Miller  of  the  Dee 292 

The  Tsarcvna  Frog 293 

The  Spring  Walk 306 

The  Language  of  the  Birds 308 

The  Constant  Tin  Soldier  .      .      ...      .316 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Spikky  Sparrow 326 

Contented  John 329 

Tubal  Cain 331 

Snyegurka 334 

Suggestions  to  Teachers 341 


THE  TEACHERS' 
STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

CHRISTMAS   EVE1 

Prince  Dimple  was  a  very  little  fellow, 
for  he  had  never  seen  Christmas.  He  could 
only  talk  in  his  funny  baby  way,  which  no 
one  understood  except  his  two  dolls,  Jack  the 
Harlequin,  in  his  pink  and  green  suit  with 
the  little  bells  on  it,  and  Squeaky  Sam,  who 
was  made  of  rubber,  with  a  whistle  inside  of  him 
which  squeaked  whenever  you  squeezed  him. 

''Christmas  is  coming.'  I  heard  mother  say 
so,"  Prince  Dimple  told  Jack  the  Harlequin 
one  day.     '  *  Do  you  know  what  Christmas  is?" 

No,  Jack  did  not  know,  and  Squeaky  Sam 
did  not  know;  but  Christmas  must  certainly 
be  very  nice,  for  every  one  seemed  to  be  glad 
that  it  was  coming,  and  whenever  mother 
talked  to  Prince  Dimple  about  it  she  hugged 
and  kissed  him,  as  if  it  were  something  that 
had  a  great  deal  to  do  with  him. 

"  Santa  Claus  is  coming  to-night,  and  little 

1  This  story,  and  the  two  following  stories,  were  taken  from  "Prince  Dimple  and 
his  Every-day  Doings."     By  permission  of  George  W.  Jacobs  6s  Co.,  publishers. 


12  THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

Cousin  Margaret  has  sent  you  a  pretty  stock- 
ing to  hang  up,"  said  mother  one  evening 
when  Prince  Dimple  was  all  ready  for  bed. 

Prince  Dimple  clapped  his  hands  when 
mother  showed  him  the  stocking.  It  was 
the  very  prettiest  stocking  Prince  Dimple 
had  ever  seen,  and  he  wondered  why  mother 
did  not  get  him  such  pretty  stockings  to 
wear,  instead  of  little  black  silk  ones. 

It  was  pink  and  blue,  and  little  points 
hung  from  the  top  of  the  stocking  with  little 
gold  bells  on  them,  just  like  the  bells  on  Jack 
the  Harlequin. 

It  had  little  pink  and  blue  ribbons  by  which 
to  hang  it  up,  and  it  was  big  enough  to  hold 
a  great  many  nice  things. 

"See,  we  will  hang  it  up  by  the  fireplace, 
so  that  Santa  Claus  can  find  it  and  fill  it 
with  pretty  things  for  Prince  Dimple, "  mother 
said.  The  little  bells  jingled  and  made  sweet 
music  as  mother  fastened  it  up  beside  the 
fireplace;  and  Prince  Dimple  wondered,  as  he 
went  to  sleep,  how  Santa  Claus  was  coming 
and  what  he  would  bring. 

When  Prince  Dimple  was  sound  asleep, 
and  his  little  curly  head  was  resting  on  his 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK        13 

pillow  in  the  bassinet,  then  you  may  be  sure 
Santa  Claus  came,  and  filled  the  pretty  little 
stocking  to  the  very  top. 

He  had  far  too  much  to  put  it  all  into  the 
stocking,  and  so  he  piled  the  rest  of  the  pretty 
things  he  had  brought  beside  the  fireplace. 

Mrs.  Paull. 

CHRISTMAS  MORNING 

Prince  Dimple  had  slept  so  soundly  all  night 
long  that  he  had  not  heard  Santa  Claus 
come,  and  he  had  forgotten  all  about  his 
pretty  stocking.  When  he  woke  up  in  the 
morning  he  sat  up  and  rubbed  his  eyes,  and 
then  he  saw  the  stocking  filled  to  the  top, 
and  the  beautiful  presents  piled  up  beside 
the  fireplace. 

"Oh!  oh!  oh!"  he  shouted;  and  he  nearly 
jumped  out  of  his  bassinet,  he  was  so  eager 
to  get  over  to  the  fireplace,  and  see  all  the 
wonderful  things. 

Mother  carried  him  over,  and  he  was  so 
delighted  that  he  hardly  knew  what  to  look 
at  first. 

There  was  a  beautiful  gray  horse,  with  a 
red  saddle,  that  he  had  to  stop  and  kiss  the 


14        THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

very  first  thing,  it  was  so  pretty;  and  then 
he  found  another  horse,  with  a  rider  on  its 
back,  who  blew  a  trumpet  whenever  he  was 
moved. 

There  was  a  picture  book  full  of  monkeys, 
and  Prince  Dimple  did  love  monkeys  so 
much  that  he  was  very  happy  to  have  a 
whole  book  full  of  them. 

Everything  Prince  Dimple  liked  best  was 
here.  There  was  a  box  of  big  blocks  that 
had  all  sorts  of  pictures  on  them,  and  were 
so  light  to  lift  that  he  could  easily  pick  them 
up  in  his  little  hands,  although  they  did  look 
so  big. 

There  was  the  story  of  the  Old  Woman  and 
her  Pig,  which  mother  had  told  Prince  Dimple 
ever  so  many  times,  and  now  he  could  see 
all  the  pictures  of  the  naughty  pig  that 
wouldn't  go. 

After  Prince  Dimple  had  looked  at  all  the 
pretty  things  that  were  piled  up  beside  the 
fireplace  mother  gave  him  his  stocking,  and 
Prince  Dimple  shouted  with  delight  as  he 
took  out  the  pretty  things,  one  after  another. 

I  couldn't  possibly  tell  you  what  they  all 
were;  and  if  you  want  to  see  them,  you  must 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK        15 

come  to   Prince   Dimple's   nursery,   and   he 
will  show  them  all  to  you  himself. 

Mrs.  Paull. 

THE  CHRISTMAS  TREE 

Prince  Dimple  knew  now  what  Christ- 
mas was;  and  he  was  very  glad  it  had  come, 
since  it  had  brought  him  so  many  nice 
things. 

He  did  not  want  to  stop  and  get  dressed, 
he  was  so  busy  playing  with  his  new  toys; 
but  at  last  he  stopped  long  enough  to  have 
his  bath  and  eat  his  breakfast. 

Mother  let  him  hold  his  new  ball  in  his 
hand  all  the  time  he  was  getting  dressed,  and 
that  helped  him  to  be  patient. 

Still  more  wonderful  things  were  to  happen, 
though.  When  Prince  Dimple  had  eaten  his 
breakfast  mother  took  him  in  her  arms  and 
carried  him  downstairs;  and  papa  opened  the 
parlor  door  for  them. 

Can  you  guess  what  the  wonderful  thing 
was  that  Prince  Dimple  saw?  There  was  a 
beautiful  tree,  sparkling  with  tiny  tapers, 
and  covered  with  beautiful  shining  things,  and 
soft,  glittering  snow. 


16  THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

It  was  the  most  beautiful  thing  that  little 
Prince  Dimple  had  ever  seen,  and  he  was  so 
surprised  and  so  pleased  that  he  did  not  say 
a  single  word. 

He  never  moved,  but  just  sat  still  and  looked 
at  everything  with  his  big  blue  eyes,  without 
even  a  smile. 

It  was  so  beautiful  that  he  did  not  know 
what  to  do  with  himself. 

"What  do  you  think  of  your  Christmas 
tree,  Prince  Dimple?"  asked  papa  at  last. 

"Ah!  ha!"  shouted  Prince  Dimple,  giving 
such  a  spring  that  he  nearly  jumped  out  of 
mother's  arms,  he  was  in  such  a  hurry  to  go 
nearer  to  the  wonderful  tree. 

There  was  so  much  to  see  that  Prince  Dim- 
ple thought  he  would  never  get  through  look- 
ing at  it ;  and  he  spent  Christmas  Day  with 
his  beautiful  tree,  and  was  almost  too  happy 
to  eat. 

I  will  not  tell  you  about  the  tree,  because 
of  course  you  had  just  such  a  pretty  one 
yourself,  and  perhaps  you  have  seen  Christ- 
mas trees  a  great  many  times;  but  it  was 
little  Prince  Dimple's  first  Christmas  tree, 
you  know,  and  so  it  was  a  very  wonderful 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK  17 

tree  to  him,  and  he  thought  it  was  the  most 

beautiful  tree  in  the  world. 

Mrs.  Paull. 

THE  "WAKE-UP"  STORY 

The  sun  was  up  and  the  breeze  was  blow- 
ing, and  the  five  chicks  and  four  geese  and 
three  rabbits  and  two  kitties  and  one  little 
dog  were  just  as  noisy  and  lively  as  they 
knew  how  to  be. 

They  were  all  watching  for  Baby  Ray  to 
appear  at  the  window,  but  he  was  still  fast 
asleep  in  his  little  white  bed,  while  mamma 
was  making  ready  the  things  he  would  need 
when  he  should  wake  up. 

First  she  went  along  the  orchard  path  as 
far  as  the  old  wooden  pump,  and  said: 
"Good  Pump,  will  you  give  me  some  nice, 
clear  water  for  the  baby's  bath?" 

And  the  pump  was  willing. 

The  good  old  pump  by  the  orchard  path 
Gave  nice,  clear  water  for  the  baby's  bath. 

Then  she  went  a  little  farther  on  the  path 
and   stopped   at   the   wood   pile,    and   said: 
"Good  Chips,  the  pump  has  given  me  nice, 
clear  water  for  dear  little  Ray ;  will  you  come 


18  THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

and  warm  the  water  and  cook  his  food?" 
And  the  chips  were  willing. 

The  good  old  pump  by  the  orchard  path 
Gave  nice,  clear  water  for  the  baby's  bath. 
And  the  clean,  white  chips  from  the  pile  of  wood 
Were  glad  to  warm  it  and  to  cook  his  food. 

So  mamma  went  on  till  she  came  to  the 
barn,  and  then  said:  "Good  Cow,  the  pump 
has  given  me  nice,  clear  water,  and  the  wood 
pile  has  given  me  clean,  white  chips  for  dear 
little  Ray ;  will  you  give  me  warm,  rich  milk?  M 

And  the  cow  was  willing. 

Then  she  said  to  the  top-knot  hen  that  was 
scratching  in  the  straw:  "Good  Biddy,  the 
pump  has  given  me  nice,  clear  water,  and  the 
wood  pile  has  given  me  clean,  white  chips, 
and  the  cow  has  given  me  warm,  rich  milk 
for  dear  little  Ray;  will  you  give  me  a  new- 
laid  egg?}} 

And  the  hen  was  willing. 

The  good  old  pump  by  the  orchard  path 
Gave  nice,  clear  water  for  the  baby's  bath. 
The  clean,  white  chips  from  the  pile  of  wood 
Were  glad  to  warm  it  and  to  cook  his  food. 
The  cow  gave  milk  in  the  milk  pail  bright, 
And  the  top-knot  Biddy  an  eggt  new  and  white. 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK  19 

Then  mamma  went  on  till  she  came  to  the 
orchard,  and  said  to  a  Red  June  apple  tree: 
"Good  Tree,  the  pump  has  given  me  nice, 
clear  water,  and  the  wood  pile  has  given 
me  clean,  white  chips,  and  the  cow  has 
given  me  warm,  rich  milk,  and  the  hen 
has  given  me  a  new-laid  egg  for  dear  little 
Ray;  will  you  give  me  a  pretty  red  apple ?" 

And  the  tree  was  willing. 

So  mamma  took  the  apple  and  the  egg  and 
the  milk  and  the  chips  and  the  water  to  the 
house,  and  there  was  Baby  Ray  in  his  night- 
gown, looking  out  of  the  window. 

And  she  kissed  him  and  bathed  him  and 
dressed  him,  and  while  she  brushed  and  curled 
his  soft,  brown  hair,  she  told  him  the  "  Wake- 
Up'  '  story  that  I  am  telling  you: 

The  good  old  pump  by  the  orchard  path 
Gave  nice,  clear  water  for  the  baby's  bath; 
The  clean,  white  chips  from  the  pile  of  wood 
Were  glad  to  warm  it  and  to  cook  his  food. 
The  cow  gave  milk  in  the  milk  pail  bright; 
The  top-knot  Biddy  an  egg,  new  and  white; 
And  the  tree  gave  an  apple  so  round  and  so  red, 
For  dear  little  Ray  who  was  just  out  of  bed. 

EUDORA  BUMSTEAD. 


20         THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

THE  "GO-SLEEP"  STORY 

"How  can  I  go  to  bed,"  said  Penny,  the 
flossy  dog,  "till  I  say  good  night  to  Baby 
Ray?  He  gives  me  part  of  his  bread  and 
milk,  and  pats  me  with  his  little  soft  hand. 
It  is  bedtime  now  for  dogs  and  babies.  I 
wonder  if  he  is  asleep?" 

So  he  trotted  along  in  his  silky  white 
nightgown  till  he  found  Baby  Ray  on  the 
porch  in  mamma's  arms. 

And  she  was  telling  him  the  same  little 
story  that  I  am  telling  you: 

"The  doggie  that  was  given  him  to  keep,  keep,  keep, 
Went  to  see  if  Baby  Ray  was  asleep,  sleep,  sleep." 

"How  can  we  go  to  bed,"  said  Snowdrop 
and  Thistledown,  the  youngest  children  of 
Tabby,  the  cat,  "till  we  have  once  more 
looked  at  Baby  Ray?  He  lets  us  play  with 
his  blocks  and  ball,  and  laughs  when  we  climb 
on  the  table.  It  is  bedtime  now  for  kitties 
and  dogs  and  babies.  Perhaps  we  shall  find 
him  asleep."  And  this  is  what  the  kitties 
heard : 

"One  doggie  that  was  given  him  to  keep,  keep,  keep, 
Two  cunning  little  kitty-cats,  creep,  creep,  creep, 
Went  to  see  if  Baby  Ray  was  asleep,  sleep,  sleep." 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK         21 

"How  can  we  go  to  bed,"  said  the  three 
little  bunnies,  "till  we  have  seen  Baby  Ray?" 
Then  away  they  went  in  their  white  velvet 
nightgowns  as  softly  as  three  flakes  of  snow. 
And  they,  too,  when  they  got  as  far  as  the 
porch,  heard  Ray's  mamma  telling  the  same 
little  story: 

"One  doggie  that  was  given  him  to  keep,  keep,  keep, 
Two  cunning  little  kitty-cats,  creep,  creep,  creep, 
Three  pretty  little  bunnies  with  a  leap,  leap,  leap, 
Went  to  see  if  Baby  Ray  was  asleep,  sleep,  sleep." 

"How  can  we  go  to  bed,"  said  the  four 
white  geese,  "till  we  know  that  Baby  Ray 
is  all  right?  He  loves  to  watch  us  sail  on 
the  duck  pond,  and  he  brings  us  corn  in  his 
little  blue  apron.  It  is  bedtime  now  for  geese 
and  rabbits  and  kitties  and  dogs  and  babies, 
and  he  really  ought  to  be  asleep. " 

So  they  waddled  away  in  their  white 
feather  nightgowns,  around  by  the  porch, 
where  they  saw  Baby  Ray,  and  heard  mamma 
tell  the  "Go-Sleep"  story: 

"One  doggie  that  was  given  him  to  keep,  keep,  keep, 
Two  cunning  little  kitty-cats,  creep,  creep,  creep, 
Three  pretty  little  bunnies,  with  a  leap,  leap,  leap, 
Four  geese  from  the  duck  pond,  deep,  deep,  deep, 
Went  to  see  if  Baby  Ray  was  asleep,  sleep,  sleep." 


22         THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

"How  can  we  go  to  bed,"  said  the  five 
white  chicks,  "till  we  have  seen  Baby  Ray- 
once  more?  He  scatters  crumbs  for  us  and 
calls  us.  Now  it  is  bedtime  for  chicks  and 
geese  and  rabbits  and  kitties  and  dogs 
and  babies,  so  little  Ray  must  be  asleep." 

Then  they  ran  and  fluttered  in  their  downy 
white  nightgowns  till  they  came  to  the  porch, 
where  little  Ray  was  just  closing  his  eyes, 
while  mamma  told  the  "Go-Sleep"  story: 

"One  doggie  that  was  given  him  to  keep,  keep, 

keep, 
Two  cunning  little  kitty-cats,  creep,  creep,  creep, 
Three  pretty  little  bunnies,  with  a  leap,  leap,  leap, 
Four  geese  from  the  duck  pond,  deep,  deep,  deep, 
Five  downy  little  chicks,  crying,  peep,  peep,  peep, 
All  saw  that  Baby  Ray  was  asleep,  sleep,  sleep." 

EUDORA   BUMSTEAD. 

THE  SLEEPY  SONG1 

As  soon  as  the  fire  burns  red  and  low 
And  the  house  upstairs  is  still, 

She  sings  me  a  queer  little  sleepy  song, 
Of  sheep  that  go  over  the  hill. 


From    "Poems."   By   permission  of  the  author.     Copyright,  iqoj,  by  Chas. 
Scribner's  Sons. 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK        23 

The  good  little  sheep  run  quick  and  soft, 
Their  colors  are  gray  and  white; 

They  follow  their  leader,  nose  and  tail, 
For  they  must  be  home  by  night. 

And  one  slips  over,  and  one  comes  next, 

And  one  runs  after  behind ; 
The  gray  one's  nose  at  the  white  one's  tail, 

The  top  of  the  hill  they  find. 

And  when  they  get  to  the  top  of  the  hill 

They  quietly  slip  away, 
But  one  runs  over  and  one  comes  next — 

Their  colors  are  white  and  gray. 

And  over  they  go,  and  over  they  go, 

And  over  the  top  of  the  hill 
The  good  little  sheep  run  quick  and  soft, 

And  the  house  upstairs  is  still. 

And  one  slips  over  and  one  comes  next, 
The  good  little,  gray  little  sheep! 

I  watch  how  the  fire  burns  red  and  low, 
And  she  says  that  I  fall  asleep. 

Josephine  Daskam  Bacon. 


24         THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

SOAP-BUBBLE  STORY1 

THE     DEAR     DARLINGS     PLAY     A     PRETTY 
RAINY-DAY   PLAY 

Arabella  and  Araminta  were  two  little 
sisters  four  years  old.  They  lived  in  a  white 
house  on  a  green  hill,  and  all  day  long  they 
played  together. 

And  one  day  it  rained  while  the  sun  was 
shining;  the  sun  was  shining  while  it  rained. 

And  Arabella  looked  out  of  the  window, 
and  said,  "Oh,  see,  Araminta!  see  the  sun 
in  the  rain!" 

And  Araminta  looked  out  of  the  window, 
and  said,  "Oh,  see,  Arabella!  see  the  sun  in 
the  rain!" 

And  Arabella  clapped  her  hands,  and  said: 
"Oh,  Araminta,  see,  see,  see!  There  is  a 
rainbow,  a  great  big  rainbow,  shining  in  the 
sky!" 

And  Araminta  clapped  her  hands,  and 
said:  "Oh,  Arabella,  see,  see,  see!  There 
is  a  rainbow,  a  great  big  rainbow,  shining 
in  the  sky!" 

And  their  mother  heard  them,  and  she  came 


From  "Arabella  and  Araminta,"  by  Gertrude  Smith.  Copyright,  /.Vy.>. 
Reprinted  by  permission  of  the  publishers,  Small,  Maynard  &  Com  pan y, 
Incorporated. 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK  25 

and  looked  out  of  the  window,  and  she  saw 
the  rainbow,  from  way  over  there  to  way  over 
there,  shining  in  the  sky. 

And  Arabella  said:  "Oh,  isn't  it  beauti- 
ful, beautiful?     Just  see  the  colors,  mamma!" 

And  Araminta  said:  "Oh,  isn't  it  beauti- 
ful, beautiful?     Just  see  the  colors,  mamma!" 

And  their  mother  said:  "Yes,  dears,  it 
is  certainly  beautiful.  I  will  tell  you  what 
we  will  do:  I  will  show  you  how  you  can 
make  some  little  rainbows  right  here  in  your 
own  house." 

And  Arabella  said,  "Why,  mamma,  how 
could  you  make  little  truly  rainbows  right 
here   in   our   own  house?" 

And  Araminta  said,  "Why,  mamma,  how 
could  you  make  little  truly  rainbows  right 
here  in  our  own  house?" 

And  their  mother  said,  "Just  wait  and  you 
will  see." 

Then  she  went  and  found  two  pipes,  two 
white  clay  pipes,  and  she  got  two  bowls  of 
water  with  some  soapsuds  in  them.  And  she 
gave  a  pipe  to  Arabella,  and  a  pipe  to  Ara- 
minta, and  she  showed  them  how  to  blow 
bubbles,  how  to  blow  soap-bubbles  with  some 


26  THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

water  and  a  pipe.  And  into  the  bubbles 
the  colors  came, — all  the  beautiful  colors  of 
the  rainbow. 

And  Arabella  blew  a  bubble  as  large  as  a 
teacup,  and  Araminta  blew  a  bubble  as  large 
as  a  little  bowl! 

And  Arabella  screamed  with  joy,  and  said: 
"  Oh,  oh,  oh!  I  do  see  a  rainbow,  a  little 
truly  rainbow  in  my  bubble,  mamma!" 

And  Araminta  screamed  with  joy,  and  said: 
"Oh,  oh,  oh!  I  do  see  a  rainbow,  a  little 
truly  rainbow  in  my  bubble,  mamma!" 

And  their  mother  said:  "Yes,  yes,  I  see, 
dears;  but  look  at  your  dresses,  do,  dears; 
they  're  as  wet  as  wet  as  can  be !  You  must 
go  right  and  take  them  off. " 

And  oh,  that  mischief  Arabella!  and  oh, 
that  mischief  Araminta! — what  do  you  think 
they  did? 

Why,  they  took  their  dresses  off,  and  took 
off  their  little  skirts,  so  nothing  was  upon 
them  except  their  little  shirts! 

And  then  they  blew  soap-bubbles,  more 
and  more  soap-bubbles,  with  nothing  else 
upon  them  except  their  little  shirts! 

And  their  mother  laughed,  and  said:   "You 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK         27 

precious  little  dears,  I  wish  I  had  your  pic- 
ture as  you  look  just  now." 

And  Arabella  danced  about  the  room,  and 
laughed  and  clapped  her  hands;  and  Ara- 
minta  danced  about  the  room,  and  laughed 
and  laughed  and  clapped  her  hands, 

Without  a  bit  of  trouble  Arabella  blew 
a  bubble;  and  she  blew  another  bubble,  and 
she  blew  another  bubble,  and  she  blew  another 
bubble;  without  a  bit  of  trouble  she  blew 
another  bubble. 

And  without  a  bit  of  trouble  Araminta  blew 
a  bubble;  and  she  blew  another  bubble,  and 
she  blew  another  bubble,  and  she  blew  another 
bubble;  without  a  bit  of  trouble  she  blew 
another  bubble. 

SLEEPY-TIME  STORY1 

WHEN  BEDTIME  CAME  THEY  WERE  WIDE  AWAKE, 
SO  WERE  THEIR  TWO  LITTLE  KITTIES 

And  one  night  Arabella's  and  Araminta' s 
mamma  was  sewing,  and  their  papa  was 
reading  his  newspaper.  And  there  was  a  fire 
in  the  grate,  a  warm  bright  fire  in  the  grate. 

1  From  "Arabella  and  Araminta"  by  Gertrude  Smith.  Copyright,  1895. 
Reprinted  by  permission  of  the  publishers,  Small,  Maynard  &»  Company, 
Incorporated. 


28 THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

And  Arabella  sat  on  the  rug  before  the  fire, 
and  Araminta  sat  on  the  rug  before  the 
fire. 

And  Arabella  was  playing  with  her  little 
white  kitty,  and  Araminta  was  playing  with 
her  little  black  kitty. 

And  Arabella's  little  white  kitty's  name 
was  Annabel,  and  Araminta' s  little  black 
kitty's  name  was  Lillabel. 

Arabella  had  a  little  red  ball  fastened  to 
a  long  string,  and  Araminta  had  a  little  blue 
ball  fastened  to  a  long  string.  Arabella 
would  roll  her  ball,  and  her  little  white 
kitty  would  run  and  jump  for  it.  And 
Araminta  would  roll  her  ball,  and  her  little 
black  kitty  would  run  and  jump  for  it. 

The  kittens  were  so  cunning  and  funny, 
and  they  were  having  such  a  splendid  time! 

Sometimes  when  Arabella's  kitty  would 
run  very  fast,  or  jump  very  high,  Arabella 
would  laugh  until  she  tumbled  right  over  on 
the  floor. 

And  sometimes  when  Araminta' s  kitty 
would  run  very  fast,  or  jump  very  high, 
Araminta  would  laugh  until  she  would  tumble 
right  over  on  the  floor. 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK         29 

Oh,    they   were   having    a    splendid    time! 

But  all  at  once  their  mamma  looked  up 
from  her  sewing,  and  said:  "Good  night, 
Arabella.  Good  night,  Araminta.  The  clock 
is  on  the  stroke  of  eight." 

And  their  papa  looked  up  from  his  paper, 
and  said:  "Yes,  good  night,  Arabella.  Good 
night,  Araminta.  The  clock  is  on  the  stroke 
of  eight." 

And  Arabella  said,  "Oh,  must  we  go  to 
bed  right  now?" 

And  Araminta  said,  "Oh,  must  we  go  to 
bed  right  now?" 

And  their  papa  said:  "Yes,  indeed;  yes, 
indeed.  Good  night,  Arabella.  Good  night, 
Araminta.  The  clock  is  on  the  stroke  of 
eight." 

Always,  when  it  was  bedtime,  their  papa 
and  mamma  would  say:  "Good  night,  Ara- 
bella.    Good  night,  Araminta. " 

And  sometimes  they  were  good,  and  some- 
times they  were  bad;  but  they  always  ran 
away  to  bed. 

And  their  dear  mamma  always  went  with 
them  and  tucked  them  in  and  kissed  them, 
then  came  away  downstairs  and  left  them. 


30         THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

And  sometimes  they  were  good,  and  some- 
times they  were  bad;  but  they  always  went 
to  sleep. 

But  to-night  their  mamma  said: 

"Run  and  get  your  nighties,  dears, 
And  get  each  a  flannel  gown, 
And  we  11  sit  and  rock  you  here, 
Till  you  go  to  sleepy-town." 

And  Arabella  ran  upstairs  and  got  her 
nighty  and  her  little  flannel  gown.  And 
Araminta  ran  upstairs  and  got  her  nighty 
and  her  little  flannel  gown.  And  their 
mamma  undressed  Arabella,  and  their  papa 
undressed  Araminta. 

Arabella's  little  flannel  gown  was  red,  and 
Araminta's  little  flannel  gown  was  pink. 
And  when  they  had  put  them  on  over  their 
nighties  they  were  just  as  warm  as  toast. 

Arabella's  kitty  was  playing  with  Ara- 
minta's kitty  on  the  rug  before  the  fire. 
They  were  rolling  and  tumbling  and  chasing 
each  other,  and  they  looked  so  cunning  and 
sweet ! 

And  Arabella's  mamma  took  Arabella  on 
her  lap,  and  Araminta's  papa  took  Araminta 
on  his  lap. 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK         31 

Arabella  said,  "Oh,  I  want  my  kitty  in  my 
lap,  mamma!" 

And  Araminta  said,  "Oh,  I  want  my 
kitty  in  my  lap,  papa!" 

So  they  jumped  down  and  caught  the 
kitties. 

Their  mamma  rocked  Arabella,  and  their 
papa  rocked  Araminta;  and  they  sang  to 
them, — 

"Now  a  nice  little  rock, 
And  never  mind  the  clock, — 
Now  a  nice  little  rock, 
And  never  mind  the  clock! " 

And  they  sang  it  over,  and  over,  and  over, 
and  over: 

"Now  a  nice  little  rock, 
And  never  mind  the  clock, — 
Now  a  nice  little  rock, 
And  never  mind  the  clock!" 

And  Arabella  cuddled  in  her  mamma's 
arms,  and  hugged  her  little  kitty  close;  and 
Araminta  cuddled  in  her  papa's  arms,  and 
hugged  her  little  kitty  close. 

And  their  mamma  sang,  and  their  papa 
sang,— 


32  THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

"Now  she  goes  to  sleepy-town,  sleepy-town, 

sleepy-town ; 
Cuddled  in  her  little  gown, 
Here  she  goes  to  sleepy- town." 

And  they  sang  it  over,  and  over,  and  over: 

"Now  she  goes  to  sleepy-town,  sleepy-town, 

sleepy- town ; 
Cuddled  in  her  little  gown, 
Here  she  goes  to  sleepy-town." 

And  very  soon  Arabella  could  only  just 
hear  her  mamma  singing,  and  very  soon 
Araminta  could  only  just  hear  her  papa  sing- 
ing, "sleepy-town,  sleepy-town. "  And  soon 
they  couldn't  hear  them  at  all.  They  were 
sound  asleep! 

And  their  mamma  looked  at  their  papa, 
and  said,  "Our  precious  little  dears  are  both 
sound  asleep." 

And  their  papa  said,  "Yes,  our  little  pets 
have  both  reached  sleepy-town." 

And  Arabella's  mamma  carried  her  upstairs 
and  put  her  in  her  little  bed,  and  Araminta's 
papa  carried  her  upstairs  and  put  her  in  her 
little  bed.  And  Arabella  was  hugging  her 
white  kitty  up  close  in  her  arms,  and  Ara- 
minta was  hugging  her  black  kitty  up  close 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 33 

in  her  arms.  And  the  kitties  were  both  sound 
asleep,  too. 

But  Araminta's  kitty  and  Arabella's  kitty 
did  not  sleep  with  them  all  night, — oh,  no, 
indeed!  They  had  a  nice  little,  warm  little, 
soft  little  bed  down  in  the  basement,  close 
by  the  furnace. 

And  their  papa  took  the  kitties  out  of 
their  arms,  and  he  carried  them  down  to 
their  bed. 

And  Arabella  slept,  and  slept,  and  slept, 
and  slept,  and  slept.  And  Araminta  slept,  and 
slept,  and  slept,  and  slept,  and  slept. 

And  the  little  kitties,  in  their  soft  little 
bed,  slept,  and  slept,  too.  All  through  the 
long,  dark,  beautiful  night  they  slept. 

And  the  sun  came,  and  the  morning  came, 
and  it  was  another  day! 

CHRISTMAS  STORY1 

HERE     COMES     DEAR,     GOOD     OLD     SANTA     IN 
THE   GOOD   OLD-FASHIONED   WAY 

It  was  winter,  and  cold,  very  cold, — boo! 
boo! — very  cold!     It  made  you  shiver  and 

1  From  "Arabella  and    iraminta,"   by  Gertrude  Smith.     Copyright,  1895. 
Reprinted   by   permission   of  the   publishers,   Small,    Maynard  &  Company, 
Incorporated. 
8 


34         THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

shake  to  step  out  of  doors,  just  shiver  and 
shake  to  step  out  of  doors. 

And  Arabella  said,  "I'm  glad  it's  winter, 
and  cold,  because  Christmas  will  come  before 
long,  I'm  sure." 

And  Araminta  said,  "Yes,  Christmas  will 
come  before   long,    I'm   sure." 

And  there  were  more  cold  days,  and  more 
cold  days,  and  more  cold  days. 

And  then  there  came  a  day  that  was  a 
very  little  warmer,  and  it  began  to  snow. 
And  it  snowed  and  snowed  and  snowed  and 
snowed  and  snowed.  Right  out  of  the  sky 
the  little  white  flakes  came  chasing  each 
other,  faster  and  faster  and  faster  and  faster, 
till  the  ground  was  all  covered  and  white. 
And  still  it  kept  snowing  and  snowing  and 
snowing!  And  the  snow  got  deeper  and 
deeper  and  deeper  and  deeper,  till  great 
drifts  were  piled  all  around, — the  fence  was 
covered,  and  the  rosebush;  and  you  couldn't 
see  the  path ! 

And  Arabella  stood  at  the  window  and 
watched  the  little  white  flakes  come  chasing 
each  other  right  out  of  the  sky. 

And  Araminta  stood  at  the  window  and 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK         35 


watched  the  little  white  flakes  come  chasing 
each  other  right  out  of  the  sky. 

And  Arabella  clapped  her  little  hands  and 
laughed,  and  said:  "Oh,  I'm  glad  that  it's 
snowing,  for  now  Christmas  will  come,  I'm 
sure;  now  Christmas  will  come,   I'm  sure!" 

And  Araminta  clapped  her  little  hands  and 
laughed,  and  said:  "Oh,  I'm  glad  that  it's 
snowing,  for  now  Christmas  will  come,  I'm 
sure;  now  Christmas  will  come,  I'm  sure!" 

And  every  morning,  when  she  awoke, 
Arabella  would  say,  "Is  it  Christmas  to-day, 
mamma?" 

And  every  morning,  when  she  awoke, 
Araminta  would  say,  "Is  it  Christmas  to- 
day, mamma?" 

And  their  mamma  would  say:  "Not  yet, 
not  yet.    You  must  wait  for  a  few  days  more. M 

And  Arabella  would  say:  "Will  Santa 
Claus  come  down  our  chimney,  mamma,  with 
a  pack  like  the  one  in  the  picture?" 

And  Araminta  would  say:  "Will  Santa 
Claus  come  down  our  chimney,  mamma, 
with  a  pack  like  the  one  in  the  picture?" 

And  their  mamma  said:  "Well,  I  hope 
Santa  will   remember  you,    dears.     He   did 


36  THE  STORY  TELLERS  BOOK 

not  pass  over  this  home  last  year.  Oh,  yes, 
I    think   he'll    remember!" 

And  the  days  went  by,  and  the  days  went 
by,  till  one  day  their  mamma  said:  "To- 
night, Arabella,  is  Christmas  Eve, — to-night, 
Araminta,  is  Christmas  Eve,  and  to-morrow 
is  Christmas  Day." 

And  Arabella  clapped  her  hands  and  danced 
around  the  room  and  cried,  "Oh,  goody, 
goody,  goody!" 

And  Araminta  clapped  her  hands  and 
danced  around  the  room  and  cried,  "Oh, 
goody,  goody,  goody!" 

And  Arabella  said,  "Shall  we  hang  our 
little  stockings  up  by  the  fireplace  to-night 
for  Santa  to  fill,  mamma?" 

And  Araminta  said:  "Shall  we  hang  our 
little  stockings  up  by  the  fireplace  to-night 
for  Santa  to  fill,  mamma?" 

And  their  mother  said:  "Yes,  yes,  you 
may  hang  them  up  to-night,  dears."  And 
they  did. 

Arabella  hung  her  two  dear  little  stock- 
ings on  the  right  side  of  the  fireplace,  and 
Araminta  hung  her  two  dear  little  stockings 
on  the  left  side  of  the  fireplace.     Close  up 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK         37 

to  the  fireplace  those  four  little  stockings 
were  hung  so  Santa  could  easily  find  them. 

And  then  Arabella  went  to  bed  and  slept, 
and  slept,  and  slept.  And  Araminta  went  to 
bed  and  slept,  and  slept,  and  slept. 

But  while  Arabella  and  Araminta  were 
sleeping,  dear  Santa  was  wide  awake;  and 
all  through  the  night  he  was  very  busily 
working. 

The  moon  was  shining,  and  all  over  the 
ground  the  snow  lay  white,  and  it  was  cold, 
very  cold, — boo!  boo!  It  made  you  shiver 
and  shake, — boo!  boo! — it  made  you  shiver 
and  shake.  It  was  a  beautiful  night  for 
Santa ! 

He  came  in  a  sleigh  of  silver  and  gold, 
with  six  white  reindeers, — at  least  so  I'm 
told  (I  never  sat  up  to  see), — with  six  white 
reindeers  all  covered  with  bells,  with  dear 
little  bells  of  silver  and  gold  that  tinkle, 
and  tinkle,  and  tinkle. 

Of  course  it's  all  true.  Don't  you  doubt, 
it's  all  true.  How  else  could  he  come?  He 
comes  every  year;  how  else  could  he  come? 

And  while  Arabella  slept,  and  while  Ara- 
minta slept,  he  came  in  his  sleigh  of  silver 


38  THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

and  gold,  with  the  six  white  reindeers,  right 
up  to  their  door,  and  he  rapped,  tap,  tap, 
and  he  rang  the  bell;  but  no  one  woke  up 
or  heard  him!  It  was  a  beautiful  night  for 
Santa ! 

It  was  cold  and  clear,  and  the  moon  shone 
bright.  Just  the  kind  of  a  Christmas  to  give 
delight  to  a  jolly  old  soul  like  Santa. 

And  Arabella's  and  Araminta's  papa  had 
put  a  ladder  up  by  the  house  to  make  it 
easy  for  Santa.  And  he  ran  up  the  ladder 
and  stood  on  the  roof.  And  he  tiptoed  around 
until  he  found  the  chimney,  and  he  laughed 
as  he  looked  down  the  chimney,  and  he  said: 
"The  door  is  locked  and  all  are  asleep,  so 
as  usual  I'll  go  down  the  chimney." 

And  he  looked  up  at  the  moon,  and  shook 
his  curls,  and  said:  "Arabella  and  Ara- 
minta  are  good  little  girls.  Don't  forget, 
dear  Santa,  they  are  good  little  girls. "  Then, 
pop,  he  was  gone  down  the  chimney! 

And  there  by  the  fireplace  he  found  Ara- 
bella's two  little  stockings  and  Araminta's 
two  little  stockings,  and  he  filled  them  all 
full,  so  full  they  ran  over,  and  things  lay 
around  on  the  floor.     Then  up  through  the 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK  39 

chimney  he  went  as  quick  as  a  wink,  much 
quicker  than  you  could  possibly  think.  And 
he  ran  down  the  ladder  and  jumped  into  his 
sleigh,  and  spoke  to  the  reindeers  and  rode 
away.     It  was  a  beautiful  night  for  Santa! 

And  Arabella  slept  and  slept,  and  Ara- 
minta  slept  and  slept.  And  then  it  was 
Christmas  morning! 

And  Arabella  woke  up  and  said:  " Merry 
Christmas,  Araminta!  Oh,  do  you  suppose 
dear  Santa  did  come?" 

And  Araminta  said:  " Merry  Christmas, 
Arabella!  Oh,  do  you  suppose  dear  Santa 
did  come?" 

And  they  jumped  out  of  their  little  beds 
and  put  on  their,  little  flannel  gowns,  and 
ran  downstairs  as  fast  as  they  could  go. 
And  there  by  the  fireplace  the  four  little 
stockings  were  hanging,  full, — full  to  the 
toes  and  running  over! 

And  Arabella  said:  "Oh,  Santa  has  been 
here!  Just  see,  see,  see  my  stocking,  Ara- 
minta!" 

And  Araminta  said:  "Oh,  Santa  has  been 
here!  Just  see,  see,  see  my  stocking,  Ara- 
bella!" 


40  THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

And  then  they  looked  at  their  presents. 
Arabella  had  a  beautiful  big  new  doll,  and 
Araminta  had  a  beautiful  big  new  doll. 
And  Arabella  had  a  little  set  of  dishes,  and 
Araminta  had  a  little  set  of  dishes.  And 
Arabella  had  a  storybook,  a  beautiful  story- 
book, and  Araminta  had  a  storybook,  a 
beautiful  storybook.  And  Arabella  had  a 
little  white  muff  and  tippet  all  for  herself, 
and  Araminta  had  a  little  white  muff  and 
tippet  all  for  herself.  And  Arabella  had  a 
rocking-horse, — she  was  very  fond  of  horses, — 
and  Araminta  had  a  rocking-horse, — she  was 
very  fond  of  horses.  And  Arabella  had  a 
big  red  ball,  and  Araminta  had  a  big  red  ball. 
And  Arabella  had  a  box  of  candy  and  nuts, 
and  Araminta  had^a  box  of  candy  and  nuts. 
And  Arabella  had  a  little  silver  thimble, 
and  Araminta  had  a  little  silver  thimble. 
And  they  had  other  things,  a  great  many 
other  things, — I  cannot  begin  to  tell  you. 

And  all  day  long  they  played  with  their 
presents, — yes,  all  Christmas  Day  they  played 
with  their  presents.  It  was  a  very  merry 
Christmas. 7 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK  41 

THE  BIRTHDAY  PARTY1 

GOOD-BY,   ARABELLA,    GOOD-BY,    ARAMINTA. 

WE  HOPE  YOU   WILL   HAVE   MANY   HAPPY 

BIRTHDAYS 

And  the  days  went  by,  and  the  weeks 
went  by,  and  the  months  went  by,  and  a  year 
went  by,  and  our  dear  Arabella  was  five  years 
old,  and  our  dear  Araminta  was  five  years 
old.  Their  birthday  came  on  the  very  same 
day,  because  they  were  twins,  you  know. 

It  was  a  beautiful  day  in  June,  a  beautiful 
day  in  June ;  and  it  was  their  birthday. 

And  what  do  you  suppose  they  had? 
Why,  they  had  a  party,  a  birthday  party, 
out  under  the  trees  on  the  lawn.  It  was 
Arabella's  party,  and  it  was  Araminta's 
party.  And  there  were  five  little  girls  and 
five  little  boys  invited  to  come  to  the  party. 
And  they  were  to  have  such  a  beautiful  time ! 

At  half-past  two  the  party  came,  and 
stayed  till  half -past  five. 

And  Arabella  wore  a  white  dotted  muslin 
dress,  and  her  little  arms  and  her  neck  were 
bare.     And  she  wore  a  pink  sash,  and  little 

1  From  "Arabella  and  Araminta''  by  Gertrude  Smith.  Copyright,  1805. 
Reprinted  by  permission  of  the  publishers,  Small,  Maynard  &  Company t 
Incorporated. 


42         THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

pink  bows  on  her  shoulders.     And,  oh,  she 
did  look  so  pretty,  and  sweet,  and  dear! 

And  Araminta  wore  a  white  dotted  muslin 
dress,  and  her  little  arms  and  neck  were  bare. 
And  she  wore  a  blue  sash,  and  little  blue 
bows  on  her  shoulders.  And,  oh,  she  did 
look  so  pretty,  and  sweet,  and  dear! 

And  when  it  was  time  for  the  children  to 
come, — for  the  children  to  come  to  the  party, 
— Arabella  and  Araminta  stood  out  by  the 
gate,  stood  out  by  the  gate,  and  waited. 
And  up  the  road  the  children  came, — the 
five  little  girls  and  the  five  little  boys, — all 
running  and  skipping  and  jumping. 

And  Arabella  clapped  her  hands,  and  said: 
"Oh,  the  party  is  coming!  Araminta,  see, 
see,  the  party  is  coming!" 

And  Araminta  clapped  her  hands,  and  said : 
"Oh,  the  party  is  coming!  See,  see,  the 
party  is  coming!" 

And  Arabella  climbed  up  on  the  gate,  and 
waved  her  little  handkerchief.  "I  see  you!" 
she  called.     "I  see  you,  all  of  you,  coming!" 

And  Araminta  climbed  up  on  the  gate,  and 
waved  her  little  handkerchief.  "I  see  you!" 
she  called.     "I  see  you,  all  of  you,  coming!" 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 43 

And  up  through  the  gate  the  children  came, 
— the  five  little  girls  and  the  five  little  boys, — 
all  running  and  skipping  and  jumping. 

There  were  Jamie  and  Josie  Browne,  and 
Martha  and  Nelly  Little,  and  dear  little 
Dorothy  Flint,  and  her  cousin  Margery 
Allen,  and  Henry  and  Herbert  and  Freddy 
DeLong,  and  their  little  sister  Mabel.  And 
this  was  the  party. 

It  was  a  beautiful  day  in  June,  you  remem- 
ber, a  warm,  bright,  beautiful  day  in  June. 
And  what  fun  they  had  at  that  party! 

They  ran  about  on  the  lawn,  and  they 
played  all  the  games  they  knew.  And  Ara- 
bella's mamma,  and  Araminta's  mamma, 
came  out  on  the  lawn  and  told  them  some 
new  games  to  play,  and  showed  them  how 
to  play  them.  She  played  with  them,  just 
as  though  she  were  a  dear  little  girl  herself. 
And,  oh,  they  had  a  beautiful  time! 

And  then  came  the  loveliest  part  of  all, 
the  dinner, — the  birthday  dinner  out  under 
the  trees  on  the  lawn.  All  the  five  little 
girls  sat  on  one  side  of  the  table,  and  all 
the  five  little  boys  sat  on  the  other  side  of 
the  table,  and  Arabella  sat  at  one  end  of  the 


44        THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

table  in  her  high  chair,  and  Araminta  sat 
at  the  other  end  of  the  table  in  her  high 
chair.     And  then  the  dinner  began. 

And  right  in  the  middle  of  the  table  were 
five  dear  little  cakes  with  candles  on  them, 
one  little  candle  on  each  little  cake.  And 
one  of  the  cakes  had  "  Arabella"  printed  on 
it  in  candies,  in  little  pink  and  white  candies. 
And  one  of  the  cakes  had  "Araminta" 
printed  on  it  in  candies,  in  little  pink  and  white 
candies.  These  were  their  birthday  cakes, 
you  know,  their  dear  little  birthday  cakes. 
But  before  they  came  to  the  cakes  they  had 
other  things  that  were  good  to  eat,  a  great 
many  other  things.  It  was  a  very,  very  nice 
dinner.  And  up  over  their  heads  were  the 
green,  green  boughs  of  the  trees,  and  up  in 
the  trees  the  dear  little  birds  were  singing 
and  singing  and  singing. 

And  the  five  little  boys,  and  the  five  little 
girls,  and  dear  Arabella,  and  dear  Araminta, 
were  eating  their  dinner,  and  laughing  and 
talking,  and  having  the  best,  best  time. 

And  then  such  a  funny  thing  happened, 
such  a  funny,  funny  thing  happened.  What 
do  you  suppose  it  was?     Why,  it  began  to 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK  45 

rain!  But  that  isn't  funny  at  all,  you  say, 
to  have  it  rain  on  the  dinner.  But  it  wasn't 
truly  rain,  at  all,  only  a  shower  of  flowers, 
right  out  of  the  cherry  tree  above  them,  came 
falling  and  falling  and  falling  all  over  the  heads 
of  the  children,  all  over  the  heads  of  the  party ! 
And  the  children  laughed  with  delight,  and 
held  up  their  hands  and  caught  them. 

"Oh,  it's  raining  flowers!"  they  all  cried, 
and  held  up  their  hands  and  caught  them. 

But  Arabella  pointed  up  in  the  tree  and 
laughed,  and  said:  "Oh,  I  see  my  naughty, 
funny  papa  up  in  the  tree!  I  know  who 
tumbled  the  flowers  on  our  heads!  I  know! 
I  know!     I  know!" 

And  Araminta  pointed  up  in  the  tree,  and 
said:  "Oh,  I  see  my  naughty,  funny  papa 
up  in  the  tree!  I  know  who  tumbled  the 
flowers  on  our  heads!  I  know!  I  know  J 
I    know!" 

And  all  the  children  laughed  and  looked 
up  in  the  tree  and  pointed. 

"We  see  you  up  in  the  tree!"  they  cried. 
"We  see  you  up  there  in  the  branches!  We 
know  who  tumbled  the  flowers  on  our  heads! 
We  know!  we  know!" 


46         THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

And  then  that   funny  papa  sat  out  on 
bough  of  the  tree  and  sang  them  this  song: 

"I  should  not  think  a  turtle-dove 
Could  sit  up  in  a  tree, 
And  hold  by  his  two  little  feet, 
While  making  melody. 

"I  wonder  why  the  pigeons 
Have  never  learned  to  write; 
Such  bright-eyed,  clever  little  birds, 
I  really  think  they  might ! 

"I  can't  think  why  a  cherry  tree 
Should  never  raise  a  pear, 
But  always  cherries,  cherries  red, 
A-bobbing  in  the  air. 

"I  don't  see  how  an  apple 

In  one  summer  can  learn  how 
To  grow  up  from  a  blossom 
And  hang  upon  a  bough. 

"What  would  you  do,  what  could  you  do, 
If  some  fine  summer  day 
The  leaves  should  all  be  faces, 
And  watch  you  while  you  play? 

"Suppose  this  tree  should  change  its  mind 
Before  another  spring, 
And  turn  into  a  giant, 
And  tell  us  everything? " 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK        47 

And  the  children  all  cried:  "Tell  it  again! 
Tell  it  again !" 

And  so  he  sang  it  again.  And  then  he 
jumped  down  from  the  tree,  while  all  the 
children  stood  about  and  laughed  and  clapped 
their  hands. 

And  then  the  dinner  was  over,  and  they 
played  more  games;  and  Arabella's  and 
Araminta's  papa  played  with  them, — that 
dear  good  papa  played  with  them.  And 
they  had  a  splendid  time.  I  am  sure  they 
will  always  remember,  they  had  such  a  splen- 
did time. 

And  then  it  was  half -past  five,  and  the 
party  went  home, — all  the  five  little  girls  and 
the  five  little  boys, — and  the  party  was  over. 

And  that  night,  when  Arabella  went  to 
bed,  she  stood  on  tiptoe  and  looked  in  the 
glass,  and  said:  "I'm  five  years  old,  I'm 
not  four  any  more;  and  I'm  certainly,  cer- 
tainly growing." 

And  Araminta  stood  on  tiptoe  beside 
Arabella,  and  looked  in  the  glass,  and  said: 
"I'm  five  years  old,  I'm  not  four  any  more; 
and  I'm  certainly,  certainly  growing." 


48        THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 


FIVE  LITTLE  BROTHERS 

Five  little  brothers  set   out  together 

To  journey  the  livelong  day. 
In  a  curious  carriage  all  made  of  leather 

They  hurried  away,  away! 
One  big  brother,  and  three  quite  small, 

And  one  wee  fellow  no  size  at  all. 

The  carriage  was  dark  and  none  too  roomy, 
And  they  could  not  move  about; 

The  five  little  brothers  grew  very  gloomy, 
And  the  wee  one  began  to  pout, 

Till  the  biggest  one  whispered,    "What  do 
you  say? 
Let's  leave  the  carriage  and  run  away!" 

So   out   they   scampered,   the   five   together, 

And  off  and  away  they  sped! 
When  somebody  found  the  carriage  of  leather, 

Oh,  my,  how  she  shook  her  head! 
'Twas  her  little   boy's   shoe,    as   every   one 

knows, 
And  the   five  little  brothers  were  five  little 
toes. 

Ella  Wheeler  Wilcox. 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK  49 

THE  CAT  AND  THE  MOUSE1 

The  cat  and  the  mouse  played  in  a  malt 
house.     The  cat  bit  off  the  mouse's  tail. 
"Pray,   Puss,   give  me  my  tail  again." 
"No,"    said   the   cat,    "I'll   not   give  you 
your  tail  again  till  you  go  to  the  cow  and 
fetch  me  some  milk." 

First  she  leaped,  and  then  she  ran, 

Till  she  came  to  the  cow  and  thus  began : 

"Pray,  Cow,  give  me  some  milk  that  I  may 
give  it  to  the  cat,  so  she  may  give  me  my  tail 
again." 

"No,"  said  the  cow,  "I'll  give  you  no 
milk  till  you  go  to  the  farmer  and  get  me  some 
hay." 

First  she  leaped,  and  then  she  ran, 

Till  she  came  to  the  farmer  and  thus  began : 

"Pray,  Farmer,  give  me  some  hay  that  I 
may  give  it  to  the  cow,  so  she  may  give  me 
some  milk  that  I  may  give  it  to  the  cat,  so 
she  may  give  me  my  tail  again." 

"No,"  said  the  farmer,  "I'll  give  you  no 
hay  till  you  go  to  the  butcher  and  fetch  me 
some  meat." 

1  From  "For  the  Children's  Hour."     By  Permission  of  the  publishers,  Milton 
Bradley  Co. 


50  THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

First  she  leaped,  and  then  she  ran, 

Till  she  came  to  the  butcher  and  thus  began : 

"Pray,  Butcher,  give  me  some  meat  that 
I  may  give  it  to  the  farmer,  so  he  may  give 
me  some  hay  that  I  may  give  it  to  the  cow,  so 
she  may  give  me  some  milk  that  I  may  give 
it  to  the  cat,  so  she  may  give  me  my  tail  again. ' ' 

"No, "  said  the  butcher,  "I  will  give  you 
no  meat  till  you  go  to  the  baker  and  fetch 
me  some  bread. M 

First  she  leaped,  and  then  she  ran, 

Till  she  came  to  the  baker  and  thus  began : 

"Pray,  Baker,  give  me  some  bread  that  I 
may  give  it  to  the  butcher,  so  he  may  give 
me  some  meat  that  I  may  give  to  the  farmer, 
so  he  may  give  me  some  hay  that  I  may  give 
to  the  cow,  so  she  may  give  me  some  milk 
that  I  may  give  to  the  cat,  so  she  may  give 
me  my  tail  again. " 

"Well,"  said  the  baker,  "I'll  give  you  some  bread — 
But  don't  eat  my  meal,  or  I'll  cut  off  your  head." 

The  baker  gave  the  mouse  bread  which  she 
brought  to  the  butcher,  the  butcher  gave  the 
mouse  meat  which  she  brought  to  the  farmer, 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK        51 

the  farmer  gave  the  mouse  hay  which  she 
brought  to  the  cow,  the  cow  gave  the  mouse 
milk  which  she  brought  to  the  cat,  and  the 
cat  gave  the  mouse  her  tail  again. 

Carolyn  S.  Bailey. 

THE  ROBBER  KITTEN 
A  kitten  once  to  its  mother  said, 

"111  never  more  be  good, 
But  I'll  go  and  be  a  robber  bold 
And  live  in  a  dreary  wood, 

Wood,  wood,  wood, 
And   live    in    a    dreary   wood." 

So  off  he  went  to  a  dreary  wood 

And  there  he  met  a  cock, 
And  blew  his  head  with  a  pistol  off, 

Which  gave  him  an  awful  shock, 
Shock,  shock,  shock, 

Which  gave  him  an  awful  shock. 

Soon  after  that  he  met  a  cat. 

"Now  give  to  me  your  purse 
Or  I  '11  shoot  you  through,  and  stab  you,  too, 

And  kill  you,  which  is  worse, 
Worse,  worse,  worse, 

And  kill  you,  which  is  worse/' 


52  THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

At  last  he  met  a  robber  dog 
And  they  sat  down  to  drink; 

The  dog  did  joke  and  laugh  and  sing, 
Which  made  the  kitten  wink, 

Wink,  wink,  wink, 
Which  made  the  kitten  wink. 

At  last  they  quarreled,  then  they  fought 
Beneath  the  greenwood  tree, 

And  puss  was  felled  with  an  awful  club 
Most  terrible  to  see, 

See,  see,  see, 
Most  terrible  to  see. 

When  puss  got  up  his  eye  was  cut, 
And  swelled,  and  black  and  blue, 

Moreover  all  his  bones  were  sore, 
Which  made  this  kitten  mew, 

Mew,  mew,  mew, 
Which  made  this  kitten  mew. 

So  up  he  got  and  rubbed  his  head 

And  went  home  very  sad. 
"O  mother  dear,  behold  me  here; 

I'll  nevermore  be  bad, 
Bad,  bad,  bad, 

I'll  nevermore  be  bad." 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK        53 

THE  THREE  BILLY  GOATS  GRUFF 

Once  there  were  three  billy  goats  named 
Gruff.  They  wished  to  go  up  on  the  hillside 
to  eat  the  fresh  green  grass  that  grew  there, 
for  they  were  very  lean  and  hungry  and  the 
grass  was  all  gone  from  their  side  of  the 
mountain. 

But  there  was  a  little  stream  over  which 
they  must  pass  to  reach  the  green  hillside, 
and  under  the  bridge  which  they  must  cross 
lived  an  ugly  old  troll. 

''I  will  go  first,"  said  the  little  billy  goat 
Gruff,  and  he  started  across  the  bridge. 

Trip,  trap,  trip,  trap,  went  the  bridge. 

"Who  goes  tripping  over  my  bridge?" 
roared  the  troll. 

"It's  I— I'm  the  little  billy  goat  Gruff," 
said  the  little  goat.  "I  go  upon  the  hillside 
to  eat  the  green  grass." 

"I  think  I'll  eat  you,"  said  the  troll. 

"Oh,  don't  do  that,"  said  the  little  goat. 
"My  bigger  brother  is  coming.  You'd  better 
eat  him." 

"Very  well,"  said  the  troll,  and  the  little 
goat  hurried  on,  trip,   trap,   trip,    trap,  over 


54         THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

the  bridge,  and  up  on  the  hillside  to  eat  the 
green  grass. 

Soon  after  the  next  billy  goat  Gruff  came 
along. 

Trip,  trap,  trip,  trap,  went  the  bridge. 

"Who  goes  tripping  over  my  bridge?" 
roared  the  troll. 

"It's  I.  I'm  the  second  billy  goat  Gruff. 
I  'm  going  up  on  the  hillside  to  eat  the  green 
grass." 

"I  think  I'll  eat  you,"  said  the  troll. 

"Oh,  don't  eat  me.  My  big  brother  is 
coming.     You'd  better  eat  him." 

"Well,  be  off  with  you,"   said  the  troll. 

But  just  then  up  came  the  big  billy  goat 
Gruff. 

TRIP,  TRAP,  TRIP,  TRAP,  went  the 
bridge. 

"Who  goes  tripping  over  my  bridge?" 
roared  the  troll. 

"It's  I.  I'm  the  big  billy  goat  Gruff.  I 
go  up  on  the  hillside  to  eat  the  green  grass." 

"Now,  I'm  coming  up  to  eat  you,"  roared 
the  troll. 

"COME  ON,  THEN,"  said  the  big  billy 
goat  Gruff,  who  had  a  great  hoarse  voice  of 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK  55 

his  own,  and  he  lowered  his  horns  and  when 
the  old  troll  climbed  upon  the  bridge  he 
struck  him  a  terrible  blow  and  knocked  him 
down  into  the  water,  where  he  was  changed 
into  a  great  stone. 

If  you  go  over  the  bridge  you  may  see  it 
there  to  this  day.  And  the  big  billy  goat  Gruff 
went  TRIP,  TRAP,  TRIP,  TRAP  over  the 
bridge  and  up  on  the  hillside  to  eat  the  green 
grass. 

And  if  the  grass  is  not  all  gone,  the  three 
brother  billy  goats   are   eating  there  yet. 

Adapted  from  the  Norwegian. 

THE  LITTLE  RED  HEN 

Once  upon  a  time  there  was  a  little  red  hen 
who  lived  alone  in  a  little  house  in  the  wood. 
A  crafty  old  fox  had  his  home  in  the  wood, 
and  many  a  time  he  tried  to  catch  the  little 
red  hen  and  carry  her  away  to  his  hole,  but 
she  always  outwitted  him. 

One  day  he  had  crept  up  close  to  her  house 
when  he  saw  her  come  out  to  fill  her  apron 
full  of  chips  to  make  her  fire.  Quick  as  a 
flash  he  darted  through  the  door.     In  came 


56  THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

the  little  red  hen,  but  when  she  saw  the  fox 
she  flew  screaming  to  the  rafters. 

"Come  down,"  said  the  fox. 

"Oh,  no,"  said  the  little  red  hen. 

"Then  see  how  I  can  dance,"  said  the  fox, 
and  round  and  round  he  danced  until  the 
little  red  hen  grew  so  dizzy  that  down  she 
fell  from  the  rafters.  Quickly  the  fox  popped 
her  into  his  bag  and  off  he  went  through  the 
wood  with  the  bag  over  his  shoulder.  But 
he  soon  became  tired  and  lay  down  to  rest. 

The  little  red  hen  took  her  scissors  from 
her  pocket  and  snipped  a  hole  in  the  bag. 
Very  quietly  she  crept  out  and,  finding  a  big 
stone,  she  rolled  it  into  the  bag  and  sewed  up 
the  hole.  And  away  ran  the  little  red  hen 
to  her  house,  and  went  in  and  locked  the  door. 

Soon  the  fox  awoke  and,  putting  the  bag 
on  his  back,  away  he  ran  to  his  den. 

"This  little  red  hen  is  very  heavy,"  said 
he.  "It  is  a  good  supper  I  shall  have  to- 
night." 

When  he  came  to  his  den  he  called  to  his 
old  mother: 

"Put  on  the  kettle,  for  it's  the  little  red 
hen  we'll  have  for  our  supper." 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK        57 

So  the  old  fox  put  on  the  kettle,  and  when 
the  water  boiled  they  held  the  sack  over  the 
kettle,  and  out  fell  the  big  stone,  and  splash! 
went  the  boiling  water  all  over  the  fox  and 
his  mother,  and  scalded  them  to  death. 

But  the  little  red  hen  lived  happily  in  her 
house  ever  after. 

THE    LITTLE    RED    HEN    AND    THE 
GRAIN  OF  WHEAT 

One  day  when  the  little  red  hen  was  scratch- 
ing in  the  garden  she  found  a  grain  of  wheat. 

"Who  will  plant  this  grain  of  wheat?" 
said  the  little  red  hen. 

"I  won't,"  said  the  cat. 

"I  won't,"  said  the  rat. 

"I  won't,"  said  the  cock. 

"I  won't,"  said  the  duck. 

"I  won't,"  said  the  curly-tailed  pig. 

"Then  I  will,"  said  the  little  red  hen,  and 
she  did. 

The  wheat  grew  and  grew,  and  finally  it 
was  ready  to  cut. 

"Who  will  cut  the  wheat?"  said  the  little 
red  hen. 

"I  won't  "  said  the  cat. 


58  THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

"I  won't,"  said  the  rat. 
"I  won't,"  said  the  cock. 
"I  won't,"  said  the  duck. 
"I  won't,"  said  the  curly-tailed  pig. 
"Then  I  will,"  said  the  little  red  hen,  and 
she  did. 

When  the  wheat  was  gathered  she   said, 
"Who  will  take  this  wheat  to  the  mill?" 

I  won't, "  said  the  cat. 

I  won't,"  said  the  rat. 

I  won't,"  said  the  cock. 

I  won't,"  said  the  duck. 

I  won't,"  said  the  curly-tailed  pig. 

Then   I   will,"    said   the   little   red   hen, 
and  she  did. 

When  the  wheat  was  ground  the  little  red 
hen  brought  it  home. 

"Now    who    will    make    this    wheat    into 
bread?"  said  she. 

I  won't, "  said  the  cat. 

I  won't,"  said  the  rat. 

I  won't,"  said  the  cock. 

I  won't,"  said  the  duck. 

I  won't,"  said  the  curly-tailed  pig. 

Then  I  will,"  said  the  little  red  hen. 
So  she  made  the  bread  and  baked  it,  and 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK  59 

when  it  was  done  she  took  it  from  the  oven. 

"Now  who  will  help  me  eat  this  bread?" 
said  she. 

"I  will,"  said  the  cat. 

"I  will,"  said  the  rat. 

"I  will,"  said  the  cock. 

"I  will,"  said  the  duck. 

"I  will,"  said  the  curly-tailed  pig. 

"  Oh,  no,  you  won't, "  said  the  little  red  hen, 
and  calling  the  little  chickens,  they  had  a  feast 
in  the  corner  of  the  barnyard,  and  the  cat  and 
the  rat  and  the  cock  and  the  duck  and  the 
curly-tailed  pig  did  not  get  even  a  crumb. 

THE  OLD  WOMAN  AND  HER  PIG 

An  old  woman  was  sweeping  her  house  and 
she  found  a  little  crooked  sixpence. 

"What  shall  I  do  with  this  sixpence?"  said 
she.    * ' I  will  go  to  market,  and  buy  a  little  pig. ' ' 

So  the  old  woman  went  to  market  and 
bought  the  pig.  And  as  she  was  coming 
home  she  came  to  a  stile;  but  the  pig  would 
not  go  over  the  stile.     So  she  said: 

"Pig,  pig,  get  over  the  stile; 
Or  I  shan't  get  home  to-night." 

But  the  pig  would  not. 


60         THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

She  went  a  little  farther,  and  she  met  a 
dog.     So  she  said  to  the  dog: 

"Dog,  dog,  bite  pig; 
Pig  won't  get  over  the  stile; 
And  I  shan't  get  home  to-night." 

But  the  dog  would  not. 
She  went  a  little  farther,  and  she  met  a 
stick.     So  she  said: 

"Stick,  stick,  beat  dog; 
Dog  won't  bite  pig; 
Pig  won't  get  over  the  stile; 
And  I  shan't  get  home  to-night." 

But  the  stick  would  not. 
She  went  a  little  farther,  and  she  met  a 
fire.     So  she  said: 

"Fire,  fire,  burn  stick; 
Stick  won't  beat  dog; 
Dog  won't  bite  pig; 
Pig  won't  get  over  the  stile; 
And  I  shan't  get  home  to-night." 

But  the  fire  would  not. 
She  went  a  little  farther,  and  she  met  some 
water.     So  she  said: 

"Water,  water,  quench  fire; 
Fire  won't  burn  stick; 
Stick  won't  beat  dog; 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK  61 

Dog  won't  bite  pig; 

Pig  won't  get  over  the  stile; 

And  I  shan't  get  home  to-night." 

But  the  water  would  not. 
She  went  a  little  farther,  and  she  met  an 
ox.     So  she  said: 

"Ox,  ox,  drink  water; 
Water  won't  quench  fire; 
Fire  won't  burn  stick ; 
Stick  won't  beat  dog; 
Dog  won't  bite  pig; 
Pig  won't  get  over  the  stile; 
And  I  shan't  get  home  to-night." 

But  the  ox  would  not. 
She  went  a  little  farther,  and  she  met  a 
butcher.     So  she  said: 

"Butcher,  butcher,  kill  ox; 
Ox  won't  drink  water; 
Water  won't  quench  fire; 
Fire  won't  burn  stick ; 
Stick  won't  beat  dog; 
Dog  won't  bite  pig; 
Pig  won't  get  over  the  stile; 
And  I  shan't  get  home  to-night." 

But  the  butcher  would  not : 
She  went  a  little  farther,  and  she  met  a 
rope.     So  she  said: 


62  THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

"Rope,  rope,  hang  butcher* 
Butcher  won't  kill  ox; 
Ox  won't  drink  water; 
Water  won't  quench  fire; 
Fire  won't  burn  stick; 
Stick  won't  beat  dog; 
Dog  won't  bite  pig; 
Pig  won't  get  over  the  stile; 
And  I  shan't  get  home  to-night." 

But  the  rope  would  not. 
She  went  a  little  farther,  and  she  met  a  rat. 
So  she  said: 

"Rat,  rat,  gnaw  rope; 
Rope  won't  hang  butcher; 
Butcher  won't  kill  ox; 
Ox  won't  drink  water; 
Water  won't  quench  fire; 
Fire  won't  burn  stick; 
Stick  won't  beat  dog; 
Dog  won't  bite  pig; 
Pig  won't  get  over  the  stile; 
And  I  shan't  get  home  to-night." 

But  the  rat  would  not. 
She  went  a  little  farther,  and  she  met  a  cat. 
So  she  said: 

"Cat,  cat,  kill  rat; 
Rat  won't  gnaw  rope; 
Rope  won't  hang  butcher; 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK  63 

Butcher  won't  kill  ox; 

Ox  won't  drink  water; 

Water  won't  quench  fire ; 

Fire  won't  burn  stick; 

Stick  won't  beat  dog; 

Dog  won't  bite  pig; 

Pig  won't  get  over  the  stile; 

And  I  shan't  get  home  to-night." 

But  the  cat  said  to  her,  "If  you  will  go 
to  yonder  cow,  and  fetch  me  a  saucer  of  milk, 
I  will  kill  the  rat." 

So  away  went  the  old  woman  to  the  cow, 
and  said: 

"Cow,  cow,  give  me  a  saucer  of  milk; 
Cat  won't  kill  rat; 
Rat  won't  gnaw  rope; 
Rope  won't  hang  butcher; 
Butcher  won't  kill  ox; 
Ox  won't  drink  water; 
Water  won't  quench  fire; 
Fire  won't  burn  stick; 
Stick  won't  beat  dog; 
Dog  won't  bite  pig; 
Pig  won't  get  over  the  stile; 
And  I  shan't  get  home  to-night." 

But  the  cow  said  to  her,  "If  you  will  go 
to  yonder  haymakers,  and  fetch  me  a  wisp  of 
hay,  111  give  you  the  milk."     So  away  went 


64  THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

the  old  woman  to  the  haymakers,  and  said: 

"Playmakers,  give  me  a  wisp  of  hay; 
Cow  won't  give  me  milk; 
Cat  won't  kill  rat; 
Rat  won't  gnaw  rope; 
Rope  won't  hang  butcher; 
Butcher  won't  kill  ox; 
Ox  won't  drink  water; 
Water  won't  quench  fire; 
Fire  won't  burn  stick; 
Stick  won't  beat  dog; 
Dog  won't  bite  pig; 
Pig  won't  get  over  the  stile; 
And  I  shan't  get  home  to-night." 

But  the  haymakers  said  to  her,  "If  you 
will  go  to  yonder  stream,  and  fetch  us  a 
bucket  of  water,  we'll  give  you  the  hay." 

So  away  the  old  woman  went ;  but  when  she 
got  to  the  stream,  she  found  the  bucket  was 
full  of  holes.  So  she  covered  the  bottom  with 
pebbles,  and  then  filled  the  bucket  with  water, 
and  away  she  went  back  with  it  to  the 
haymakers;  and  they  gave  her  a  wisp  of  hay. 
As  soon  as  the  cow  had  eaten  the  hay  she 
gave  the  old  woman  the  milk;  and  away  she 
went  with  it  in  a  saucer  to  the  cat.  As  soon 
as  the  cat  had  lapped  up  the  milk 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK  65 

The  cat  began  to  kill  the  rat; 

The  rat  began  to  gnaw  the  rope; 

The  rope  began  to  hang  the  butcher; 

The  butcher  began  to  kill  the  ox; 

The  ox  began  to  drink  the  water; 

The  water  began  to  quench  the  fire; 

The  fire  began  to  burn  the  stick; 

The  stick  began  to  beat  the  dog; 

The  dog  began  to  bite  the  pig; 

The  little  pig  in  a  fright  jumped  over  the  stile ; 

And  so  the  old  woman  got  home  that  night. 

THE  LITTLE  GRAY  PONY1 

There  was  once  a  man  who  owned  a  little 
gray  pony. 

Every  morning  when  the  dewdrops  were 
still  hanging  on  the  pink  clover  in  the  mead- 
ows, and  the  birds  were  singing  their  morning 
song,  the  man  would  jump  on  his  pony  and 
ride  away,  clippety,  clippety,  clap! 

The  pony's  four  small  hoofs  played  the 
j oiliest  tune  on  the  smooth  pike  road,  the 
pony's  head  was  always  high  in  the  air,  and 
the  pony's  two  little  ears  were  always  pricked 
up ;  for  he  was  a  merry  gray  pony,  and  loved 
to  go   clippety,   clippety,   clap! 

1  From"  Mother  Stories.''     By  permission  of  the  publishers,  Milton  Bradley  Co. 


66         THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

The  man  rode  to  town  and  to  country, 
to  church  and  to  market,  up  hill  and  down 
hill;  and  one  day  he  heard  something  fall 
with  a  clang  on  a  stone  in  the  road.  Looking 
back,  he  saw  a  horseshoe  lying  there.  And 
when  he  saw  it,  he  cried  out: 

"What  shall  I  do?    What  shall  I  do? 
If  my  little  gray  pony  has  lost  a  shoe? " 

Then  down  he  jumped,  in  a  great  hurry, 
and  looked  at  one  of  the  pony's  forefeet; 
but  nothing  was  wrong.  He  lifted  the  other 
forefoot,  but  the  shoe  was  still  there.  He 
examined  one  of  the  hindfeet,  and  began  to 
think  that  he  was  mistaken;  but  when  he 
looked  at  the  last  foot,  he  cried  again: 

"What  shall  I  do?     What  shall  I  do? 
My  little  gray  pony  has  lost  a  shoe!  M 

Then  he  made  haste  to  go  to  the  black- 
smith; and  when  he  saw  the  smith  he  called 
out  to  him: 

"Blacksmith !  Blacksmith !     I  Ve  come  to  you ; 
My  little  gray  pony  has  lost  a  shoe!  " 

But   the   blacksmith   answered   and   said: 

"How  can  I  shoe  your  pony's  feet, 
Without  some  coal  the  iron  to  heat?" 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK        67 

The  man  was  downcast  when  he  heard  this ; 
but  he  left  his  little  gray  pony  in  the  black- 
smith's care,  while  he  hurried  here  and  there 
to  buy  the  coal. 

First  of  all  he  went  to  the  store;  and  when 
he  got  there  he  said: 

"Storekeeper!    Storekeeper!     Fve  come  to  you; 
My  little  gray  pony  has  lost  a  shoe ! 
And  I  want  some  coal  the  iron  to  heat, 
That  the  blacksmith  may  shoe  my  pony's  feet." 

But  the  storekeeper  answered  and  said: 

"Now,  I  have  apples  and  candy  to  sell, 
And  more  nice  things  than  I  can  tell ; 
But  I  've  no  coal  the  iron  to  heat, 
That  the  blacksmith  may  shoe  your  pony's  feet." 

Then  the  man  went  away,  sighing  and 
saying: 

"What  shall  I  do?    What  shall  I  do? 
My  little  gray  pony  has  lost  a  shoe!  " 

By  and  by  he  met  a  farmer  coming  to  town 
with  a  wagon  full  of  good  things;  and  he  said: 

"Farmer!     Farmer!     I've  come  to  you; 
My  little  gray  pony  has  lost  a  shoe ! 
And  I  want  some  coal  the  iron  to  heat, 
That  the  blacksmith  may  shoe  my  pony's  feet." 


68  THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

Then  the  farmer  answered  the  man  and 
said: 

"I  've  bushels  of  corn  and  hay  and  wheat, 
Something  for  you  and  your  pony  to  eat; 
But  I  've  no  coal  the.iron  to  heat, 
That  the  blacksmith  may  shoe  your  pony's  feet." 

So  the  farmer  drove  away  and  left  the 
man  standing  in  the  road,  sighing  and  saying : 

"What  shall  I  do?    What  shall  I  do? 
My  little  gray  pony  has  lost  a  shoe!  " 

In  the  farmer's  wagon,  frill  of  good  things, 
he  saw  corn,  which  made  him  think  of  the 
mill;  so  he  hastened  there,  and  called  to  the 
dusty  miller : 

"Miller!     Miller!     I  've  come  to  you; 
My  little  gray  pony  has  lost  a  shoe, 
And  I  want  some  coal  the  iron  to  heat, 
That  the  blacksmith  may  shoe  my  pony's  feet." 

The  miller  came  to  the  door  in  surprise; 
and  when  he  heard  what  was  needed  he  said: 

"I  have  wheels  that  go  round  and  round, 
And  stones  to  turn  till  the  grain  is  ground; 
But  I  've  no  coal  the  iron  to  heat, 
That  the  blacksmith  may  shoe  your  pony's  feet." 

Then  the  man   turned   away  sorrowfully 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK  69 

and  sat  down  on  a  rock  near  the  roadside, 
sighing  and  saying: 

"What  shall  I  do?     What  shall  I  do? 
My  little  gray  pony  has  lost  a  shoe! " 

After  a  while  a  very  old  woman  came  down 
the  road,  driving  a  flock  of  geese  to  market; 
and  when  she  came  near  the  man  she  stopped 
to  ask  him  his  trouble.  He  told  her  all  about 
it ;  and  when  she  had  heard  it  all  she  laughed 
till  her  geese  joined  in_with  a  cackle;  and  she 
said: 

"If  you  would  know  where  the  coal  is  found, 
You  must  go  to  the  miner,  who  works  in  the  ground." 

Then  the  man  sprang  to  his  feet,  and, 
thanking  the  old  woman,  he  ran  to  the  miner. 
Now  the  miner  had  been  working  many  a 
long  day  down  in  the  mine,  under  the  ground, 
where  it  was  so  dark  that  he  had  to  wear  a 
lamp  on  the  front  of  his  cap  to  light  him  at 
his  work!  He  had  plenty  of  black  coal 
ready,  and  gave  great  lumps  of  it  to  the  man, 
who  took  them  in  haste  to  the  blacksmith. 

The  blacksmith  lighted  his  great  red  fire,  and 
hammered  out  four  fine  new  shoes,  with  a  cling ! 
and  a  clang!  and  fastened  them  on  with  a  rap! 


?0         THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 


and  a  tap  i     Then  away  rode  the  man  on  his 
little  gray  pony, — clippety,  clippety,  clap ! 

Maud  Lindsay. 

THE  WIND'S  WORK1 

One  morning  Jan  waked  up  very  early, 
and  the  first  thing  he  saw  when  he  opened 
his  eyes  was  his  great  kite  in  the  corner. 
His  big  brother  had  made  it  for  him;  and 
it  had  a  smiling  face,  and  a  long  tail  that 
reached  from  the  bed  to  the  fireplace.  It 
did  not  smile  at  Jan  that  morning  though, 
but  looked  very  sorrowful  and  seemed  to 
say,  "  Why  was  I  made?  Not  to  stand  in  a 
corner,  I  hope!"  for  it  had  been  finished  for 
two  whole  days  and  not  a  breeze  had  blown 
to  carry  it  up  like  a  bird  in  the  air. 

Jan  jumped  out  of  bed,  dressed  himself, 
and  ran  to  the  door  to  see  if  the  windmill 
on  the  hill  was  at  work;  for  he  hoped  that 
the  wind  had  come  in  the  night.  But  the 
mill  was  silent  and  its  arms  stood  still.  Not 
even  a  leaf  turned  over  in  the  yard. 

The  windmill  stood  on  a  high  hill  where 
all  the  people  could  see  it,  and  when  its  long 

1 F  rom"  Mother  Stories."   By  permission  of  the  publishers,  Milton  Bradley  Co. 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK        71 

arms  went  whirling  around  every  one  knew 
that  there  was  no  danger  of  being  hungry, 
for  then  the  miller  was  busy  from  morn  to 
night  grinding  the  grain  that  the  farmers 
brought  him. 

When  Jan  looked  out,  however,  the  miller 
had  nothing  to  do,  and  was  standing  in  his 
doorway,  watching  the  clouds,  and  saying 
to  himself  (though  Jan  could  not  hear  him) : 

"Oh!  how  I  wish  the  wind  would  blow, 
So  that  my  windmill's  sails  might  go, 
To  turn  my  heavy  millstones  round ! 
For  corn  and  wheat  must  both  be  ground, 
And  how  to  grind  I  do  not  know 
Unless  the  merry  wind  will  blow." 

He  sighed  as  he  spoke,  for  he  looked  down  in 
the  village,  and  saw  the  baker  in  neat  cap 
and  apron,  standing  idle  too. 

The  baker's  ovens  were  cold,  and  his  trays 
were  clean,  and  he,  too,  was  watching  the 
sky,  and  saying: 

"Oh!  how  I  wish  the  wind  would  blow, 
So  that  the  miller's  mill  might  go, 
And  grind  me  flour  so  fine,  to  make 
My  good  light  bread  and  good  sweet  cake ! 
But  how  to  bake  I  do  not  know 
Without  the  flour  as  white  as  snow." 


72  THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

Jan  heard  every  word  that  the  baker  said, 
for  he  lived  next  door  to  him;  and  he  felt  so 
sorry  for  his  good  neighbor  that  he  wanted  to 
tell  him  so.  But  before  he  had  time  to  speak, 
somebody  else  called  out  from  across  the  street : 

"Well!  I  'm  sure  I  wish  the  wind  would  blow, 
For  this  is  washing  day,  you  know. 
I  've  scrubbed  and  rubbed  with  all  my  might, 
In  tubs  of  foam  from  morning  light, 
And  now  I  want  the  wind  to  blow 
To  dry  my  clothes  as  white  as  snow." 

This  was  the  washerwoman,  who  was 
hanging  out  her  clothes.  Jan  could  see  his 
own  Sunday  shirt,  with  ruffles,  hanging  limp 
on  her  line,  and  it  was  as  white  as  a  snow- 
flake,  sure  enough! 

"Come  over,  little  neighbor, "  cried  the 
washerwoman,  when  she  saw  Jan.  "Come 
over,  little  neighbor,  and  help  me  work  to- 
day!" So,  as  soon  as  Jan  had  eaten  his 
breakfast,  he  ran  over  to  carry  her  basket 
for  her.  The  basket  was  heavy,  but  he  did 
not  care;  and  as  he  worked  he  heard  some 
one  singing  a  song,1  with  a  voice  almost  as 
loud  and  as  strong  as  the  wind. 

1  Air:  "Nancy  Lee." 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK        73 

"Oh!  if  the  merry  wind  would  blow, 
Yeo  ho !  lads,  ho !  yeo  ho !  yeo  ho ! 
My  gallant  ship  would  gayly  go, 
Yeo  ho!  lads,  ho!  yeo  ho! 
In  fresh'ning  gales  we  'd  loose  our  sails, 

And  o'er  the  sea, 
Where  blue  waves  dance,  and  sunbeams  glance, 

We  'd  sail  in  glee, 
But  winds  must  blow,  before  we  go 

Across  the  sea, 
Yeo  ho!  my  lads,  yeo  ho!  " 

Jan  and  the  washerwoman  and  all  the 
neighbors  looked  out  to  see  who  was  singing 
so  cheerily,  and  it  was  the  sea-captain  whose 
white  ship  Jan  had  watched  in  the  harbor. 
The  ship  was  laden  with  linen  and  laces  for 
fine  ladies,  but  it  could  not  go  till  the  wind 
blew.  The  captain  was  impatient  to  be  off, 
and  so  he  walked  about  town,  singing  his 
jolly  song  to  keep  himself  happy. 

Jan  thought  it  was  a  beautiful  song,  and 
when  he  went  home  he  tried  to  sing  it  him- 
self. He  did  not  know  all  the  words,  but 
he  put  his  hands  in  his  pockets  and  swelled 
out  his  little  chest  and  sang  in  as  big  a  voice 
as  he  could:     "Yeo  ho!  my  lads,  yeo  ho!" 

While  he  sang,  something  kissed  him  on 


74         THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

the  cheek;  and  when  he  turned  to  see  what 
it  was  his  hat  spun  off  into  the  yard  as  if 
it  were  enchanted;  and  when  he  ran  to  pick 
his  hat  up  he  heard  a  whispering  all  through 
the  town.  He  looked  up,  and  he  looked  down, 
and  on  every  side,  but  saw  nobody!  At 
last  the  golden  weather  vane  on  the  church 
tower  called  down: 

11  Foolish  child,  it  is  the  wind  from  out  of 
the  east." 

The  trees  had  been  the  first  to  know  of 
its  coming,  and  they  were  bowing  and  bending 
to  welcome  it;  while  the  leaves  danced  off 
the  branches  and  down  the  hill,  in  a  whirl 
of  delight. 

The  windmill's  arms  whirled  round,  oh! 
so  fast,  and  the  wheat  was  ground  into 
white  flour  for  the  baker,  who  kindled  his 
fires  and  beat  his  eggs  in  the  twinkling  of 
an  eye;  and  he  was  not  quicker  than  the 
sea-captain,  who  loosed  his  sails  in  the 
fresh'ning  gales,  just  as  he  had  said  he  would, 
and  sailed  away  to  foreign  lands. 

Jan  watched  him  go,  and  then  ran  in  great 
haste  to  get  his  kite;  for  the  petticoats  on 
the  washerwoman's  clothesline  were  puffed 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK       75 

up  like  balloons,  and  all  the  world  was  astir. 
"Now  I'm  in  my  proper  place,"  said  the 
kite  as  it  sailed  over  the  roofs  of  the  houses, 
over  the  tree  tops,  over  the  golden  weather 
vane,  and  even  over  the  windmill  itself. 
Higher,  higher,  higher  it  flew,  as  if  it  had 
wings;  till  it  slipped  away  from  the  string, 
and  Jan  never  saw  it  again,  and  only  the  wind 
knew  where  it  landed  at  last. 

Maud  Lindsay. 

CHICKEN  LICKEN 

One  day  as  Chicken  Licken  was  scratching 
under  the  pea  vines  in  the  barnyard  a  pea 
fell  out  of  a  pod  and  struck  her  on  the  head. 

"Oh!"  said  Chicken  Licken,  "the  sky  is 
falling!     I  must  go  and  tell  the  king." 

So  she  ran  and  she  ran,  until  she  met 
Henny  Penny. 

" Where  are  you  going,  Chicken  Licken?" 
said  Henny  Penny. 

"Oh,  Henny  Penny,  the  sky  is  falling,  and 
I'm  going  to  tell  the  king!" 

"  How  do  you  know?  " 

"I  saw  it  with  my  eyes  and  I  heard  it  with 
my  ears,  and  a  piece  of  it  fell  on  my  tail!" 


76         THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

"Then  I  will  go  with  you,"  said  Henny 
Penny. 

So  they  ran  and  they  ran,  until  they  met 
Cocky  Locky. 

"Good  morning,  Henny  Penny, "  said  Cocky 
Locky.     "Where  are  you  going?" 

"Oh,  Cocky  Locky,  the  sky  is  falling,  and 
we  are  going  to  tell  the  king!" 

"How  do  you  know?" 

"Chicken  Licken  told  me." 

"I  saw  it  with  my  eyes  and  I  heard  it  with 
my  ears,  and  a  piece  of  it  fell  on  my  tail," 
said  Chicken  Licken. 

"Then  I  will  go  with  you,"  said  Cocky 
Locky. 

So  they  ran  and  they  ran,  until  they  met 
Ducky  Lucky. 

"Good  morning,  Cocky  Locky,  Henny 
Penny,  and  Chicken  Licken,"  said  Ducky 
Lucky.     "Where  are  you  going?" 

"The  sky  is  falling,  and  we  are  going  to 
tell  the  king. " 

"How  do  you  know?" 

"Henny  Penny  told  me,"  said  Cocky 
Locky. 

"Chicken  Licken  told  me,"  said  Henny 
Penny. 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK        77 

"  I  saw  it  with  my  eyes  and  I  heard  it  with 
my  ears,  and  a  piece  of  it  fell  on  my  tail," 
said  Chicken  Licken. 

"Then  I  will  go  with  you,"  said  Ducky 
Lucky. 

So  they  ran  and  they  ran,  until  they  met 
Turkey  Lurkey. 

"Good  morning,  Ducky  Lucky,  Cocky 
Locky,  Henny  Penny,  and  Chicken  Licken," 
said  Turkey  Lurkey.  "Where  are  you 
going?" 

"Oh,  Turkey  Lurkey,  the  sky  is  falling, 
and  we  are  going  to  tell  the  king. " 

"How  do  you  know?"  said  Turkey  Lurkey. 

"Cocky  Locky  told  me,"  said  Ducky 
Lucky. 

"Henny  Penny  told  me,"  said  Cocky 
Locky. 

"Chicken  Licken  told  me,"  said  Henny 
Penny. 

"I  saw  it  with  my  eyes  and  I  heard  it  with 
my  ears,  and  a  piece  of  it  fell  on  my  tail," 
said  Chicken  Licken. 

"Then  I  will  go  with  you,"  said  Turkey 
Lurkey. 

So  they  ran  and  they  ran,  until  they  came 
to  the  woods. 


78         THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

They  had  not  gone  far  into  the  woods  when 
they  met  Foxy  Loxy. 

"Good  morning,  Turkey  Lurkey,  Ducky 
Lucky,  Cocky  Locky,  Henny  Penny,  and 
Chicken    Licken.     Where    are    you    going ?" 

"The  sky  is  falling,  and  we  are  going  to 
tell  the  king." 

"  Do  you  know  where  to  go?  " 

"No,"  said  they. 

"Follow  me,  and  I  will  show  you,"  said 
Foxy  Loxy. 

So  they  all  followed  him  into  the  deep 
woods.  By  and  by  they  came  to  a  rocky 
cavern  in  the  hillside. 

"Walk  in  here,"  said  Foxy  Loxy.  And 
Turkey  Lurkey,  Ducky  Lucky,  Cocky  Locky, 
Henny  Penny,  and  Chicken  Licken  all  walked 
into  Foxy  Loxy's  den — and  though  he  was 
seen  to  come  out,  no  one  ever  saw  those 
foolish  birds  again,  and  the  king  was  never 
told  that  the  sky  was  falling. 

THE  OLD  WOMAN  WHO  LIVED  IN 
A  VINEGAR  BOTTLE 

Once  there  was  an  old  woman  who  lived 
in  a  vinegar  bottle. 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK        79 


One  day  she  went  to  market  to  buy  a  loaf 
of  bread,  a  pat  of  butter,  and  a  little  fish  for 
her  supper.  When  she  was  returning  home 
she  had  to  cross  a  bridge  over  a  stream. 
Just  before  she  came  to  the  stream  the  little 
fish  poked  his  head  out  of  the  paper  and  said, 
"  Oh,  please,  little  old  woman,  don't  cook  me  for 
your  supper.  I  don't  want  to  be  fried  in  a  pan. ' ' 

"But  I  must,"  said  the  little  old  woman, 
"I  have  nothing  else  for  my  supper." 

"  Please,  please,  throw  me  into  the  water," 
said  the  little  fish,  "and  maybe  some  day  I 
can  do  something  for  you. "  And  he  pleaded 
so  hard  that  the  old  woman  threw  him  into 
the  water.  He  looked  up  and  said,  "Thank 
you,  old  woman,"  and  then  he  disappeared. 

So  the  old  woman  went  home,  and  that 
night  she  had  only  bread  and  butter  and  tea 
for  her  supper. 

The  next  morning  when  she  was  sweeping 
her  house  she  found  a  bright  new  silver 
quarter.  "There,"  said  she,  "the  little  fish 
has  sent  me  this. ' '  And  when  she  had  finished 
her  work  she  went  again  to  market. 

This  time  she  bought  a  piece  of  meat  for 
her  supper.      When   she  was   coming  home 


80         THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

what  should  she  see  in  the  water  but  the 
little  fish.  So  she  stopped  and  called  out, 
"Thank  you,  little  fish,  for  the  silver  quarter 
you  sent  me,  but  oh,  little  fish,  I  wish  I  had 
a  little  house  to  live  in.  It  is  very  difficult 
keeping  house  in  a  vinegar  bottle.  One 
has  so  little  room. " 

"Go  home,"  said  the  little  fish,  "and  per- 
haps you  will  have  your  wish."  So  the  old 
woman  went  home,  but  when  she  got  there 
the  vinegar  bottle  was  gone  and  in  its  place 
stood  a  neat  little  house. 

The  old  woman  went  in  and  was  very 
happy  for  a  few  days  with  her  housekeeping. 
But  soon  she  began  to  wish  for  a  larger  house. 
This  one  was  altogether  too  small. 

So  the  old  woman  went  down  to  the  bridge 
and  called,  "Little  fish,  little  fish,  I've  got 
another   wish!" 

"Oh,  is  it  you,  old  woman?"  said  the  little 
fish.     "What  is  it  you  want  now?" 

"The  little  house  was  very  nice,  little 
fish,"  said  the  old  woman,  "but  it  is  quite 
too  small  for  me.  I  want  a  large  house,  so 
that  I  may  have  company,  and  I  want  a 
little  girl  to  help  me  take  care  of  it. " 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 


"Well,  well,"  said  the  little  fish,  "we  will 
see, "  and  down  he  went  under  the  water. 

The  old  woman  hurried  home,  but  when 
she  came  in  sight  of  the  place  the  little  house 
was  gone  and  there  stood  a  fine  large  one  and 
a  dear  little  girl  was  sweeping  off  the  steps. 

The  old  woman  was  greatly  pleased,  and 
she  and  the  little  girl  were  very  happy  for  a 
time.  They  gave  parties  and  they  went  to 
market  and  to  church  together. 

But  one  day  the  old  woman  thought  how 
very  nice  it  would  be  if  they  had  a  little  pony 
and  cart  so  that  they  might  drive. 

She  hurried  down  to  the  bridge  and  leaning 
over  she  called,  "Little  fish,  little  fish,  I've 
got  another  wish!" 

"What,  another  wish?"  said  the  little  fish, 
looking  up  out  of  the  water.  "What  do  you 
wish  for  this  time?" 

"I  want  a  little  pony  and  a  cart  so  that 
my  little  girl  and  I  can  drive.  It  is  very  tire- 
some having  to  walk  everywhere  one  goes," 
said  the  little  old  woman. 

"Well,"  said  the  little  fish,  "go  home,  and 
maybe  you  will  have  your  wish." 

Away  went  the  old  woman,  and  when  she 


82  THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

got  home  what  should  she  see  but  a  little 
pony  and  cart  tied  in  front  of  her  house. 

The  old  woman  was  delighted,  and  she  and 
the  little  girl  had  a  beautiful  time  driving  to 
church  and  to  market  and  to  the  park  when 
their  work  was  finished. 

But  one  day  the  old  woman  thought  how 
fine  it  would  be  if  they  had  a  big  strong  horse 
and  a  carriage  with  two  seats  so  that  they 
might  take  their  friends  driving.  So  she 
said  to  herself,  "I'll  go  and  tell  the  little 
fish." 

Down  to  the  bridge  she  ran  and  called, 
"Little  fish,  little  fish,  I've  got  another 
wish!" 

"Another  wish,  old  woman?"  said  the 
little  fish  from  the  water.  "What  is  it  you 
want  now?" 

"I  want  a  larger  horse  and  a  carriage  with 
two  seats,  so  that  we  may  take  our  friends 
with  us  when  we  go  driving.  That  little 
pony  can  go  neither  very  fast  nor  very  far." 

"You  want  too  many  things,  old  woman," 
said  the  little  fish.  "I  can  do  no  more  for 
you,"  and  he  swam  away  under  the  water 
and  the  old  woman  never  saw  him  again. 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK        83 

When  she  reached  home  the  fine  house,  the 
little  girl,  and  the  pony  and  cart  were  gone, 
and  there  stood  the  old  vinegar  bottle. 

Adapted. 

JOHNNY  AND  THE  THREE  GOATS 

Every  morning  Johnny  drove  his  three 
goats  to  pasture  and  every  evening  when  the 
sun  was  going  to  bed  he  brought  them  home. 

One  morning  he  set  off  bright  and  early, 
driving  the  goats  before  him  and  whistling 
as  he  trudged  along.  Just  as  he  reached  Mr. 
Smith's  turnip  field  what  should  he  see  but 
a  broken  board  in  the  fence.  The  goats  saw 
it  too,  and  in  they  skipped  and  began  running 
round  and  round  the  field,  stopping  now  and 
then  to  nip  off  the  tops  of  the  tender  young 
turnips. 

Johnny  knew  that  would  never  do.  Pick- 
ing up  a  stick,  he  climbed  through  the  fence 
and  tried  to  drive  the  goats  out.  But  never 
were  there  such  provoking  goats.  Round 
and  round  they  went,  not  once  looking  toward 
the  hole  in  the  fence.  Johnny  ran  and  rail 
and  ran  till  he  could  run  no  farther,  and  then 
he  crawled  through  the  hole  in  the  fence  and 


84  THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

sat  down  beside  the  road  and  began  to  cry. 

Just  then  who  should  come  down  the  road 
but  the  fox. 

"Good  morning,  Johnny !"  said  he.  "What 
are  you  crying  about?" 

"I'm  crying  because  I  can't  get  the  goats 
out  of  the  turnip  field,"  said  Johnny. 

"Oh,  don't  cry  about  that,"  said  the  fox. 
"I'll  drive  them  out  for  you." 

So  over  the  fence  leaped  the  fox,  and  round 
and  round  the  turnip  field  he  ran  after  the 
goats.  But  no,  they  would  not  go  out. 
They  flicked  their  tails  and  shook  their  heads 
and  away  they  went,  trampling  down  the 
turnips  until  you  could  hardly  have  told 
what  had  been  growing  in  the  field. 

The  fox  ran  till  he  "could  run  no  more. 
Then  he  went  over  and  sat  down  beside 
Johnny,  and  he  began  to  cry. 

Down  the  road  came  a  rabbit.  "Good 
morning,  Fox,"  said  he.  "What  are  you 
crying  about?" 

"I'm  crying  because  Johnny  is  crying," 
said  the  fox,  "and  Johnny  is  crying  because 
he  can't  get  the  goats  out  of  the  turnip 
field." 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK  85 

"Oh,  don't  cry  about  that,"  said  the 
rabbit.     "I'll  chase  them  out  for  you." 

Through  the  fence  hopped  the  rabbit,  and 
round  and  round  the  field  he  chased  the 
goats,  but  they  would  not  go  out,  and  finally 
the  rabbit  gave  up  the  chase  and  went  out 
into  the  road  and  sat  down  beside  the  fox, 
and  he  began  to  cry. 

Just  then  a  bee  came  buzzing  along  over 
the  tops  of  the  flowers. 

When  she  saw  the  rabbit  she  said,  "Good 
morning,  Bunny,  what  are  you  crying 
about?" 

"I'm  crying  because  the  fox  is  crying," 
said  the  rabbit,  "and  the  fox  is  crying  because 
Johnny  is  crying,  and  Johnny  is  crying 
because  he  can't  get  the  goats  out  of  the  tur- 
nip field." 

"Don't  cry  about  that,"  said  the  bee,  "I'll 
soon  get  them  out  for  you." 

"You!"  said  the  rabbit,  "a  little  thing 
like  you  drive  the  goats  out,  when  neither 
Johnny,  nor  the  fox,  nor  I  can  get  them  out?" 
And  he  laughed  at  the  very  idea  of  such  a 
thing. 

"Watch  me,"  said  the  bee,  and  over  the 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 


fence  she  flew  and  buzz-zz-zz  she  went  right 
in  the  ear  of  the  biggest  goat. 

The  goat  shook  his  head  and  tried  to  brush 
away  the  bee,  but  the  bee  only  flew  to  the 
other  ear  and  buzz-zz-zz  she  went,  until  the 
goat  thought  there  must  be  some  dreadful 
thing  in  the  turnip  field,  so  out  through  the 
hole  in  the  fence  he  went,  and  ran  down  the 
road  to  his  pasture. 

The  bee  flew  over  to  the  second  goat  and 
buzz-zz  she  went  first  in  one  ear  and  then  in 
the  other,  until  that  goat  was  willing  to  follow 
the  other  through  the  fence  and  down  the 
road  to  the  pasture. 

The  bee  flew  after  the  third  goat  and  buzzed 
first  in  one  ear  and  then  in  the  other  until 
he  too  was  glad  to  follow  the  others. 

"Thank  you,  little  bee,"  said  Johnny,  and, 
wiping  away  his  tears,  he  hurried  down  the 
road  to  put  the  goats  in  the  pasture. 

Adapted  from  the  Norwegian. 

JOHNNY-CAKE1 

Once  upon  a  time  there  was  an  old  man, 
and  an  old  woman,  and    a    little  boy.     One 

1  From  "English  Fairy  Tales."      By  permission  of  the  publishers,   G.   P. 
Putnam's  Sons,  New  York  and  London. 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK        87 

morning  the  old  woman  made  a  Johnny- 
cake,  and  put  it  in  the  oven  to  bake.  "You 
watch  the  Johnny-cake  while  your  father  and 
I  go  out  to  work  in  the  garden. "  So  the  old 
man  and  the  old  woman  went  out  and  began 
to  hoe  potatoes,  and  left  the  little  boy  to 
tend  the  oven.  But  he  didn't  watch  it  all 
the  time,  and  all  of  a  sudden  he  heard  a 
noise,  and  he  looked  up  and  the  oven  door 
popped  open,  and  out  of  the  oven  jumped 
Johnny-cake,  and  went  rolling  along  end  over 
end,  toward  the  open  door  of  the  house. 
The  little  boy  ran  to  shut  the  door,  but 
Johnny-cake  was  too  quick  for  him  and  rolled 
through  the  door,  down  the  steps,  and  out 
into  the  road  long  before  the  little  boy 
could  catch  him.  The  little  boy  ran  after 
him  as  fast  as  he  could  clip  it,  crying  out  to 
his  father  and  mother,  who  heard  the  uproar, 
and  threw  down  their  hoes  and  gave  chase 
too.  But  Johnny-cake  outran  all  three  a 
long  way,  and  was  soon  out  of  sight,  while 
they  had  to  sit  down,  all  out  of  breath,  on  a 
bank  to  rest. 

On  went  Johnny-cake,  and  by  and  by  he 
came'to  two  well-diggers  who  looked  up  from 


88         THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

their  work  and  called  out:  " Where  ye  go- 
ing, Johnny-cake?" 

He  said:  " I  've  outrun  an  old  man,  and  an 
old  woman,  and  a  little  boy,  and  I  can  outrun 
you  too-o-o!" 

"Ye  can,  can  ye?  We'll  see  about  that!" 
said  they;  and  they  threw  down  their  picks 
and  ran  after  him,  but  couldn't  catch  up  with 
him,  and  soon  they  had  to  sit  down  by  the 
roadside  to  rest. 

On  ran  Johnny-cake,  and  by  and  by  he 
came  to  two  ditch-diggers  who  were  digging 
a  ditch.  "Where  ye  going,  Johnny-cake?" 
said  they.  He  said:  "I've  outrun  an  old 
man,  and  an  old  woman,  and  a  little  boy, 
and  two  well-diggers,  and  I  can  outrun  you 
too-o-o!" 

"Ye  can,  can  ye?  We'll  see  about  that!" 
said  they;  and  they  threw  down  their  spades, 
and  ran  after  him  too.  But  Johnny-cake 
soon  outstripped  them  also,  and  seeing  they 
could  never  catch  him,  they  gave  up  the 
chase  and  sat  down  to  rest. 

On  went  Johnny-cake,  and  by  and  by  he 
came  to  a  bear.  The  bear  said:  "Where 
are  ye  going,  Johnny-cake?" 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK  89 

He  said:  "I've  outrun  an  old  man,  and 
an  old  woman,  and  a  little  boy,  and  two  well- 
diggers,  and  two  ditch-diggers,  and  I  can 
outrun  you  too-0-0!" 

"Ye  can,  can  ye?"  growled  the  bear. 
"We'll  see  about  that!"  and  trotted  as  fast 
as  his  legs  could  carry  him  after  Johnny-cake, 
who  never  stopped  to  look  behind  him. 
Before  long  the  bear  was  left  so  far  behind 
that  he  saw  he  might  as  well  give  up  the  hunt 
first  as  last,  so  he  stretched  himself  out  by 
the  roadside  to  rest. 

On  went  Johnny-cake,  and  by  and  by  he 
came  to  a  wolf.  The  wolf  said:  "Where 
ye  going,  Johnny-cake?" 

He  said:  "I've  outrun  an  old  man,  and 
an  old  woman,  and  a  little  boy,  and  two  well- 
diggers,  and  two  ditch-diggers,  and  a  bear, 
and  I  can  outrun  you  too-0-0!" 

"Ye  can,  can  ye?"  snarled  the  wolf. 
"We'll  see  about  that!"  And  he  set  into  a 
gallop  after  Johnny-cake,  who  went  on  and 
on  so  fast  that  the  wolf  too  saw  there  was  no 
hope  of  overtaking  him,  and  he  too  lay  down 
to  rest. 

On  went  Johnny-cake,  and  by  and  by  he 


90         THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

came  to  a  fox  that  lay  quietly  in  a  corner  of 
the  fence.  The  fox  called  out  in  a  sharp 
voice,  but  without  getting  up:  "Where  ye 
going,  Johnny-cake?'' 

He  said:  "I've  outrun  an  old  man,  and 
an  old  woman,  and  a  little  boy,  and  two  well- 
diggers,  and  two  ditch-diggers,  a  bear,  and  a 
wolf,  and  I  can  outrun  you  too-o-o!" 

The  fox  said:  "I  can't  quite  hear  you, 
Johnny-cake,  won't  you  come  a  little  closer?" 
turning  his  head  a  little  to  one  side. 

Johnny-cake  stopped  his  race  for  the  first 
time,  and  went  a  little  closer,  and  called  out 
in  a  very  loud  voice:  "Tve  outrun  an  old 
man,  and  an  old  woman,  and  a  little  boy,  and 
two  well-diggers,  and  two  ditch-diggers,  and 
a  bear,  and  a  wolf,  and  I  can  outrun  you 
too-o-o/" 

"Can't  quite  hear  you;  won't  you  come 
a  little  closer?"  said  the  fox  in  a  feeble  voice, 
as  he  stretched  out  his  neck  toward"  Johnny- 
cake,  and  put  one  paw  behind  his  ear. 

Johnny-cake  came  up  close,  and  leaning 
toward  the  fox  screamed  out :     "I ' ve  outrun 

AN  OLD  MAN,  AND  AN  OLD  WOMAN,  AND  A 
LITTLE    BOY,    AND    TWO    WELL-DIGGERS,    AND 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK  91 

TWO    DITCH-DIGGERS,     AND    A     BEAR,     AND    A 
WOLF,  AND   I    CAN   OUTRUN   YOU   TOO-0-0!,, 

"You  can,  can  you?"  yelped  the  fox,  and 
he  snapped  up  the  Johnny-cake  in  his  sharp 
teeth  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye. 

Joseph  Jacobs. 

TITTY   MOUSE   AND    TATTY   MOUSE 

Titty  Mouse  and  Tatty  Mouse  both  lived  in  a 

house. 
Titty  Mouse  went  a-leasing  and  Tatty  Mouse 

went  a-leasing, 
So  they  both  went  a-leasing. 
Titty  Mouse  leased  an  ear  of  corn,  and  Tatty 

Mouse  leased  an  ear  of  corn, 
So  they  both  leased  an  ear  of  corn. 
Titty  Mouse  made  a  pudding,  and  Tatty  Mouse 

made  a  pudding, 
So  they  both  made  a  pudding. 
And  Tatty  Mouse  put  her  pudding  into  the  pot 

to  boil, 
But  when  Titty   went   to  put  hers  in,  the  pot 

tanbled  over,  and  scalded  her  to  death. 

Then  Tatty  sat  down  and  wept;  then  a 
three-legged  stool  said:  "Tatty,  why  do  you 
weep?"     "Titty's  dead,"  said  Tatty,  "and 

1  From  "English  Fairy   Tales."    By   permission  of  the  publishers,  G.  P. 
Putnam's  Sons,  New  York  and  London. 


92         THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

so  I  weep."  "Then,"  said  the  stool,  "I'D 
hop,  "so  the  stool  hopped. 

Then  a  broom  in  the  corner  of  the  room  said : 
"Stool,  why  do  you  hop?"  "Oh!"  said  the 
stool,  "  Titty  's  dead,  and  Tatty  weeps,  and 
so  I  hop."  "Then,"  said  the  broom,  "I'll 
sweep,"  so  the  broom  began  to  sweep. 

Then,  said  the  door,  "Broom,  why  do  you 
sweep?"  "Oh!"  said  the  broom,  "Titty's 
dead,  and  Tatty  weeps,  and  the  stool 
hops,  and  so  I  sweep."  "Then,"  said  the 
door,  "  I  '11  jar, "  so  the  door  jarred. 

Then,  said  the  window,  "Door,  why  do 
you  jar?"  "Oh!"  said  the  door,  "Titty's 
dead,  and  Tatty  weeps,  and  the  stool  hops, 
and  the  broom  sweeps,  and  so  I  jar." 

"Then,"  said  the  window,  "I'll  creak,"  so 
the  window  creaked.  Now  there  was  an  old 
form  outside  the  house,  and  when  the  window 
creaked  the  form  said:  "Window,  why  do 
you  creak?"  "  Oh !"  said  the  window,  "Titty's 
dead,  and  Tatty  weeps,  and  the  stool  hops, 
and  the  broom  sweeps,  the  door  jars,  and 
so  I  creak." 

"Then,"  said  the  old  form,  "I'll  run 
round  the  house";   then  the  old  form  ran 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK  93 

round  the  house.  Now  there  was  a  fine,  large 
walnut  tree  growing  by  the  cottage,  and  the 
tree  said  to  the  form:  "Form,  why  do  you 
run  round  the  house  ? ' '  * '  Oh ! ' '  said  the  form , 
"Titty's  dead,  and  Tatty  weeps,  and  the 
stool  hops,  and  the  broom  sweeps,  the  door 
jars,  and  the  window  creaks,  and  so  I  run 
round  the  house." 

"Then,"  said  the  walnut  tree,  "I'll  shed 
my  leaves,"  so  the  walnut  tree  shed  all  its 
beautiful  green  leaves.  Now  there  was  a 
little  bird  perched  on  one  of  the  boughs  of 
the  tree,  and  when  all  the  leaves  fell  it  said: 
"Walnut  tree,  why  do  you  shed  your  leaves?" 
"Oh!"  said  the  tree,  "Titty's  dead,  and 
Tatty  weeps,  the  stool  hops,  and  the  broom 
sweeps,  the  door  jars,  and  the  window  creaks, 
the  old  form  runs  round  the  house,  and  so  I 
shed  my  leaves." 

"Then,"  said  the  little  bird,  "I'll  moult 
all  my  feathers,"  so  he  moulted  all  his  pretty 
feathers.  Now  there  was  a  little  girl  walking 
below,  carrying  a  jug  of  milk  for  her  brothers' 
and  sisters'  supper,  and  when  she  saw  the 
poor  little  bird  moult  all  its  feathers,  she  said : 
"Little  bird,   why  do  you  moult  all  your 


94        THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

feathers?"  "Oh!"  said  the  little  bird,  "Titty's 
dead,  and  Tatty  weeps,  the  stool  hops,  and 
the  broom  sweeps,  the  door  jars,  and  the 
window  creaks,  the  old  form  runs  round 
the  house,  the  walnut  tree  sheds  its  leaves, 
and  so  I  moult  all  my  feathers." 

"Then,"  said  the  little  girl,  "I'll  spill  the 
milk,"  so  she  dropped  the  pitcher  and  spilled 
the  milk.  Now  there  was  an  old  man  just 
by  on  the  top  of  a  ladder,  thatching  a  rick, 
and  when  he  saw  the  little  girl  spill  the  milk 
he  said:  "Little  girl,  what  do  you  mean  by 
spilling  the  milk?  Your  little  brothers  and 
sisters  must  go  without  their  supper. "  Then 
said  the  little  girl:  "Titty's  dead,  and  Tatty 
weeps,  the  stool  hops,  and  the  broom  sweeps, 
the  door  jars,  and  the  window  creaks,  the  old 
form  runs  round  the  house,  the  walnut  tree 
sheds  all  its  leaves,  the  little  bird  moults  all 
its  feathers,  and  so  I  spill  the  milk." 

"Oh!"  said  the  old  man,  "then  I'll  tumble 
off  the  ladder  and  break  my  neck,"  so  he 
tumbled  off  the  ladder  and  broke  his  neck, 
and  when  the  old  man  broke  his  neck  the  great 
walnut  tree  fell  down  with  a  crash  and  upset 
the   old   form   and   house,    and   the   house, 


THE  STpRY  TELLER'S  BOOK  95 

falling,  knocked  the  window  out,  and  the 
window  knocked  the  door  down,  and  the  door 
upset  the  broom,  and  the  broom  upset  the 
stool,  and  poor  little  Tatty  Mouse  was  buried 
beneath  the  ruins. 

Joseph  Jacobs. 

THE  STORY  OF  THE  THREE  BEARS 

Once  upon  a  time  there  were  three  bears 
who  lived  together  in  a  house  of  their  own 
in  a  wood.  One  of  them  was  a  great  huge 
father  bear,  and  one  was  a  middle-sized 
mother  bear,  and  the  other  was  a  little  wee 
baby  bear. 

They  each  had  a  bowl  for  their  porridge: 
a  great  bowl  for  the  father  bear,  and  a  middle- 
sized  bowl  for  the  mother  bear,  and  a  wee 
little  bowl  for  the  little  bear.  And  they  had 
each  a  chair  to  sit  in:  a  great  chair  for  the 
father  bear,  and  a  middle-sized  chair  for  the 
mother  bear,  and  a  little  chair  for  the  little 
bear.  And  they  had  each  a  bed  to  sleep  in: 
a  great  bed  for  the  father  bear,  and  a  middle- 
sized  bed  for  the  mother  bear,  and  a  little 
bed  for  the  little  bear. 

One  day  after  they  had  made  the  porridge 


96  THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

for  their  breakfast,  and  poured  it  into  their 
porridge  pots,  they  walked  out  into  the  wood 
while  the  porridge  was  cooling,  that  they 
might  not  burn  their  mouths  by  beginning 
too  soon  to  eat  it.  And  while  they  were  out, 
a  little  old  woman  came  to  the  house. 

She  was  a  very  inquisitive  little  old  woman, 
for  first  she  looked  in  the  window,  then  she 
lifted  the  latch  and  opened  the  door  and 
walked  in. 

There  on  the  table  she  saw  the  three  bowls 
of  porridge,  and  she  set  about  helping  herself. 

First  she  tasted  the  porridge  of  the  great 
huge  bear,  and  that  was  too  hot  for  her. 

Then  she  tasted  the  porridge  of  the  middle- 
sized  bear,  and  that  was  too  cold  for  her. 

And  then  she  went  to  the  porridge  of  the 
little  wee  bear,  and  that  was  neither  too 
cold  nor  too  hot,  but  just  right,  and  she 
liked  it  so  well  that  she  ate  it  all  up. 

Then  the  little  old  woman  sat  down  in 
the  chair  of  the  great  huge  bear,  and  that  was 
too  hard  for  her. 

Then  she  sat  down  in  the  chair  of  the 
middle-sized  bear,  and  that  was  too  soft  for 
her. 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK         97 

And  then  she  sat  down  in  the  chair  of  the 
little  wee  bear,  and  that  was  neither  too  hard 
nor  too  soft,  but  just  right,  so  she  seated  her- 
self there,  but  she  sat  dowrn  so  hard  that  the 
bottom  fell  out. 

Then  the  little  old  woman  went  upstairs 
to  the  bed  chamber  where  the  three  bears 
slept. 

First  she  lay  down  upon  the  bed  of  the 
great  huge  bear,  but  that  was  too  high. 

Then  she  lay  down  on  the  bed  of  the  middle- 
sized  bear,  but  that  was  too  low  for  her. 

And  then  she  lay  down  upon  the  bed  of  the 
little  wee  bear,  and  that  was  neither  too  high 
nor  too  low,  but  just  right,  so  she  lay  there 
till  she  fell  fast  asleep. 

But  by  this  time  the  three  bears  thought 
their  porridge  would  be  cool  enough,  so  they 
came  home  to  breakfast. 

Now  the  little  old  woman  had  left  the  spoon 
of  the  great  father  bear  standing  in  his 
porridge. 

"SOMEBODY  HAS  BEEN  TASTING 
MY  PORRIDGE,"  said  the  father  bear  in 
his  great  gruff  voice. 

And  when  the  mother  bear  looked  at  hers 


98        THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

she  saw  that  the  spoon  was  standing  in  it 
too. 

"Somebody  has  been  tasting  my  por- 
ridge," said  the  mother  bear  in  her  middle- 
sized  voice. 

Then  the  little  wee  bear  looked  at  his, 
and  there  was  the  spoon  in  the  bowl,  but  the 
porridge  was  all  gone. 

li  Somebody  has  been  tasting  my  porridge, 
and  has  eaten  it  all  up"  said  the  little  wee 
bear  in  his  little  wee  voice. 

Upon  this  the  three  bears  began  to  look 
about  them.  Now  the  little  old  woman  had 
not  put  the  cushion  straight  when  she  rose 
from  the  chair  of  the  great  huge  bear. 

"SOMEBODY  HAS  BEEN  SITTING  IN 
MY  CHAIR,"  said  the  father  bear  in  his 
great  gruff  voice. 

Now  the  little  old  woman  had  knocked 
down  the  cushion  from  the  chair  of  the  middle- 
sized  bear. 

"Somebody  has  been  sitting  in  my 
chair,"  said  the  mother  bear  in  her 
middle-sized   voice. 

Now  you  know  what  the  little  old  woman 
had  done  to  the  chair  of  the  little  bear. 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK         99 

"Somebody  has  been  sitting  in  my  chair, 
and  has  sat  the  bottom  out  of  it"  said  the 
little  wee  bear  in  his  little  wee  voice. 

Then  the  three  bears  decided  to  make 
further  search,  so  they  went  upstairs  into 
their  bed  chamber.  Now  the  little  old  woman 
had  pulled  the  pillow  of  the  great  huge  bear 
out  of  its  place. 

"SOMEBODY  HAS  BEEN  LYING  ON 
MY  BED,"  said  the  father  bear  in  his  great 
gruff  voice. 

And  the  little  old  woman  had  pulled  off 
the  coverlet  of  the  middle-sized  bear. 

"Somebody  has  been  lying  on  my  bed," 
said  the  mother  bear  in  her  middle-sized 
voice. 

When  the  little  wee  bear  came  to  look 
at  his  bed,  there  was  the  coverlet  in  its  place, 
and  the  pillow  in  its  place,  and  there  on  the 
bed  was  the  little  old  woman. 

"Somebody  has  been  lying  on  my  bed,  and 
here  she  is,11  said  the  little  wee  bear  in  his 
little  wee  voice. 

The  little  old  woman  had  heard  in  her  sleep 
the  great  gruff  voice  of  the  father  bear,  but 
it  sounded  in  her  sleep  like  the  rumbling  of 


ioo        THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

thunder;  and  she  had  heard  the  middle- 
sized  voice  of  the  mother  bear,  but  it  was 
only  as  if  she  had  heard  some  one  speaking 
in  a  dream ;  but  when  she  heard  the  little  wee 
voice  of  the  little  wee  bear,  it  was  so  sharp 
and  so  shrill  that  it  wakened  her  at  once. 

Up  she  started,  and  when  she  saw  the  three 
bears  at  one  side  of  the  bed  she  tumbled  her- 
self out  at  the  other,  and  ran  to  the  window. 
Now  the  window  was  open  and  out  the  little 
old  woman  jumped  and  away  she  ran  into 
the  wood,  and  what  became  of  her  I  cannot 
tell,  but  the  three  bears  never  saw  anything 
more  of  her. 

GOLDEN  HAIR  AND  THE  THREE 
BEARS 

Once  upon  a  time  there  were  three  bears 
who  lived  in  a  little  house  in  the  forest. 

There  was  the  great  huge  father  bear  and 
the  middle-sized  mother  bear  and  the  tiny 
baby  bear. 

One  morning  the  mother  bear  made  the 
porridge  for  their  breakfast  and  poured  it 
into  their  bowls  to  cool,  a  great  big  bowl  for 
the  father  bear  and  a  middle-sized  bowl  for 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK  101 

the  mother  bear  and  a  little  wee  bowl  for  the 
baby  bear. 

"Now,  my  dears,"  said  the  father  bear, 
"we  will  go  for  a  walk  while  our  porridge 
is  cooling." 

So  the  great  huge  father  bear  and  the 
middle-sized  mother  bear  and  the  tiny  baby 
bear  all  went  for  a  walk  in  the  woods. 

Near  the  woods  where  the  bears  lived  there 
lived  a  little  girl  whose  hair  was  so  yellow 
that  she  was  called  "Golden  Hair."  She 
loved  to  gather  the  flowers  that  grew  among 
the  grass  and  under  the  trees. 

On  this  morning  she  said  to  her  mother, 
"Please,  mother,  let  me  go  and  gather  some 
flowers,  they  are  so  beautiful  to-day." 

"If  you  will  not  go  into  the  deep  woods, 
you  may  go,"  said  her  mother. 

"No,  I  will  not  go  far,"  said  Golden  Hair, 
but  she  was  a  very  thoughtless  little  girl, 
and  she  went  on  and  on,  gathering  flowers, 
until  she  had  a  great  bunch,  as  many  as  her 
hands  could  hold,  but  when  she  looked  up  she 
was  in  the  heart  of  the  deep  woods.  No  one  an- 
swered when  she  called,  and  she  ran  on  and 
on,  until  she  was  too  tired  to  run  any  farther. 


102        THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

Just  then  she  saw  a  little  house  not  far 
away  among  the  trees.  "Some  one  here  will 
surely  tell  me  the  way  home,"  said  the  little 
girl,  and  she  ran  to  the  little  house  and 
knocked  on  the  door. 

No  one  answered,  so  Golden  Hair  opened 
the  door  and  walked  in.  On  the  table  she 
saw  three  bowls  of  porridge.  She  was  very 
hungry,  so  she  ran  to  the  table  and  tasted 
the  porridge  in  the  great  big  bowl,  but  it 
was  very  salt;  then  she  tasted  the  porridge 
in  the  middle-sized  bowl,  but  that  was  too 
sweet ;  so  she  tasted  the  porridge  in  the  little 
wee  bowl,  and  that  was  just  right,  and  she 
ate  and  she  ate  until  the  porridge  was  all 
gone. 

She  looked  around  the  room  and  she  saw 
three  chairs,  a  great  huge  chair  and  a  middle- 
sized  chair  and  a  little  wee  chair.  First  she 
sat  down  in  the  great  huge  chair,  but  that 
was  too  high  for  her;  and  then  she  sat  down 
in  the  middle-sized  chair,  but  that  was  too 
low  for  her;  so  then  she  sat  down  in  the  little 
wee  chair,  and  that  was  just  right,  and  she 
rocked  and  she  rocked  until  she  fell  over  and 
broke  the  chair. 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK  103 

Then  Golden  Hair  thought  she  would  go 
upstairs  and  see  what  there  might  be  up 
there.  There  she  saw  three  beds,  a  great 
huge  bed  and  a  middle-sized  bed  and  a  little 
wee  bed.  First  she  lay  down  on  the  great 
huge  bed,  but  that  was  too  hard  for  her; 
so  then  she  lay  down  on  the  middle-sized 
bed,  but  that  was  too  soft  for  her;  so  then 
she  tried  the  little  wee  bed,  and  that  was  so 
comfortable  that  before  she  knew  it  she 
was  fast  asleep. 

Just  then  the  three  bears  who  lived  in 
the  house  came  home  from  their  walk.  See- 
ing the  door  open,  they  hurried  in. 

"SOMEBODY  HAS  BEEN  EATING 
MY  PORRIDGE  !"  growled  the  great  huge 
bear. 

''Somebody  has  been  eating  my  por- 
ridge !"  snarled  the  middle-sized  bear. 

"  Somebody  has  been  at  my  porridge  and 
eaten  it  all  up!"  cried  the  little  wee  bear. 

Then  the  bears  looked  around  to  see  who 
had  been  in  their  house. 

"SOMEBODY  HAS  BEEN  SITTING 
IN  MY  CHAIR!"  growled  the  great  huge 
bear. 


104  the  story  teller's  book 

"Somebody  has  been  sitting  in  my 
chair!"  snarled  the  middle-sized  bear. 

"Somebody  has  been  sitting  in  my  chair 
and  broke  it  to  pieces!"  cried  the  little  wee 
bear. 

Then  the  bears  decided  to  go  upstairs  to 
look  for  the  intruder.  The  great  huge  bear 
went  first,  and  the  middle-sized  bear  came 
next,  and  last  of  all  came  the  little  wee  bear. 

"SOMEBODY  HAS  BEEN  LYING  ON 
MY  BED!"  growled  the  great  huge  bear. 

" Somebody  has  been  lying  on  my  bed!" 
snarled  the  middle-sized  bear. 

"Somebody  has  been  lying  on  my  bed"  cried 
the  little  wee  bear,  "and  here  she  is!" 

Now  the  voice  of  the  great  huge  bear  had 
sounded  to  Golden  Hair  like  thunder;  and 
the  voice  of  the  middle-sized  bear  had  sounded 
like  the  wind  in  the  tree  tops;  but  the  voice 
of  the  little  wee  bear  was  so  shrill  that  it 
woke  her  up. 

When  she  opened  her  eyes  and  saw  the 
three  bears  looking  angrily  at  her  she  was  so 
frightened  that  she  rolled  off  the  bed  on  the 
farther  side  and,  running  to  the  window,  she 
jumped  out. 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK  105 

On  and  on  she  ran  until  finally  she  came 
to  the  path  that  led  to  her  home.  When  she 
reached  her  home  she  was  so  tired  she  could 
hardly  tell  her  mother  what  a  naughty  child 
she  had  been,  and  she  never  again  strayed 
into  the  heart  of  the  deep  woods  where  the 
bears  lived. 

THE  THREE  LITTLE  PIGS 

Once  upon  a  time  there  was  an  old  mother 
pig  who  had  three  little  pigs.  The  name  of 
the  first  was  Whitey,  for  he  was  all  white; 
the  name  of  the  second  was  Blacky,  for  he 
was  all  black;  and  the  name  of  the  third  was 
Spotty,  for  he  was  black  and  white. 

One  day  the  old  mother  pig  called  the  three 
little  pigs  and  said  to  them: 

"My  dear  little  pigs,  it  is  time  for  you  to 
go  out  in  the  world  and  seek  your  fortune. 
You  must  each  build  a  house  for  yourself, 
but  be  sure  to  build  your  house  of  brick,  for 
if  you  do  not  the  old  wolf  will  come  and  eat 
you  up.  I  have  here  a  carrot,  and  a  potato, 
and  a  turnip.  You,  Whitey,  may  take  your 
choice,  for  you  are  the  eldest  and  must  go 
first." 


106        THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

Whitey  chose  the  carrot.  He  put  it  under 
his  arm,  and  said  good-by  to  his  mother  and 
brothers,  and  off  he  started  to  seek  his 
fortune. 

He  had  not  gone  far  before  he  met  a  man 
carrying  some  glass.  He  said  to  himself, 
"I  think  a  glass  house  would  be  nicer  than 
a  brick  one."  So  he  said,  "Man,  man,  will 
you  give  me  some  glass  to  make  a  house? 
For  I  have  none  to  live  in." 

"Certainly  I  will,  little  pig,"  said  the  man. 
So  the  little  pig  made  himself  a  nice  glass 
house,  and  sat  down  inside  to  eat  his  carrot. 

Before  very  long  the  old  wolf  came  by. 
When  he  saw  the  little  pig  in  the  glass  house 
he  went  to  the  door  and  knocked. 

"Tiny  pig,  tiny  pig,  let  me  come  in,"  said 
the  old  wolf. 

"No,  no,  by  the  hair  on  my  chinny,  chin, 
chin!"  said  the  tiny  pig. 

"Then  Til  huff  and  I'll  puff  till  I  blow  your 
house  in,"  said  the  wolf,  and  he  did,  and  ate 
up  the  tiny  pig,  and  that  was  the  end  of  the 
first  little  pig. 

Blacky  was  the  next  little  pig  to  seek  his 
fortune.     He  chose  the  turnip,  but  he  ate  it 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK  107 

up  at  once.  Then  saying  good-by  he  went 
off  down  the  road.  He  had  not  gone  far 
before  he  met  a  man  carrying  paper.  He 
said  to  himself,  for  he  was  a  lazy  little  pig, 
"I  think  a  paper  house  would  be  easier  to 
build  than  a  brick  one."  So  he  said,  "Man, 
man,  will  you  give  me  some  paper  to  make  a 
house?    For  I  have  none  to  live  in." 

"Certainly  I  will,  little  pig,"  said  the  man. 
So  the  little  pig  made  himself  a  paper  house 
and  went  to  sleep  inside. 

Presently  the  old  wolf  came  by,  and  he 
went  to  the  door  and  knocked. 

"Tiny  pig,  tiny  pig,  let  me  come  in,  or  I'll 
huff  and  I'll  puff  till  I  blow  your  house  in!" 

But  the  tiny  pig  did  not  hear,  for  he  was 
asleep.  So  the  old  wolf  huffed  and  puffed, 
but  he  could  not  break  the  house  in.  But, 
before  long,  a  shower  of  rain  came  up.  The 
paper  house  got  wet,  and  the  old  wolf  huffed 
and  puffed  and  got  in,  and  ate  up  the  tiny 
pig,  and  that  was  the  end  of  the  second  little 

pig. 

Now  it  was  Spotty' s  turn  to  seek  his  for- 
tune. The  potato  was  left  for  him,  and  put- 
ting it  in  a  little  basket  and  hanging  it  on 


108  THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

his  arm,  he  said  good-by  to  his  mother  and 
went  off  down  the  road.  First  he  met  a 
man  carrying  glass,  but  he  remembered  what 
his  mother  had  said  and  he  did  not  ask  for 
any  glass. 

Next  he  met  a  man  carrying  paper,  but  he 
remembered  what  his  mother  had  said  and 
did  not  ask  for  any  paper. 

He  walked  on  and  on,  till  at  last  he  met 
a  man  carrying  bricks. 

"Man,  man,  will  you  give  me  some  bricks 
to  build  a  house?     For  I  have  none  to  live  in." 

"Certainly  I  will,  little  pig,"  said  the  man. 
So  the  little  pig  built  himself  a  nice  brick 
house,  with  a  door  and  a  window  and  a  fine 
red  chimney.  He  went  inside  and  made  a 
fire  in  the  stove  and  put  on  the  potato  to  boil. 

Presently  the  old  wolf  came  by.  He  did 
not  look  so  pleasant  when  he  saw  this  little 
pig's  house,  but  he  went  to  the  door  and 
knocked,  and  he  said: 

"Tiny  pig,  tiny  pig,  let  me  come  in!" 

"No,  no,  not  by  the  hair  on  my  chinny, 
chin,  chin!"  said  the  tiny  pig. 

"Then  I'll  huff  and  I'll  puff  till  I  blow  your 
house  in!"     said  the  old  wolf. 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK  109 

So  he  huffed  and  puffed,  but  he  could  not 
blow  the  house  in.  Then  he  sat  down  to  wait 
for  a  shower  of  rain.  But,  when  the  rain 
came,  he  huffed  and  he  puffed,  but  still  he 
could  not  blow  the  house  in,  so  then  he 
went  to  the  door  and  said: 

"Tiny  pig,  tiny  pig,  won't  you  let  the  tip 
of  my  nose  in?" 

"No,"  said  the  tiny  pig. 

"Tiny  pig,  tiny  pig,  won't  you  let  me  put 
my  paw  in?" 

"No,"  said  the  tiny  pig. 

"Tiny  pig,  tiny  pig,  won't  you  let  me  put 
the  tip  of  my  ear  in?" 

"No,"  said  the  tiny  pig. 

"Tiny  pig,  tiny  pig,  will  you  let  the  tip 
of  my  tail  in?" 

"No,"  said  the  tiny  pig. 

"Then  I  will  climb  up  on  the  roof  and  come 
down  through  the  chimney,"  said  the  wolf. 

But  the  tiny  pig  made  the  fire  hotter,  and 
when  the  old  wolf  came  down  the  chimney  he 
was  burned  up,  and  that  was  the  end  of  him. 

The  tiny  pig  sent  for  his  mother  and  they 
ate  the  potato  together  and  lived  happily 
ever  after  in  the  little  brick  house. 


no         THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

THE  STORY  OF  THE  THREE  LITTLE 
PIGS1 

Once  upon  a  time  when  pigs  spoke  rhyme, 
And  monkeys  chewed  tobacco, 
And  hens  took  snuff  to  make  them  tough, 
And  ducks  went  quack,  quack,  quack,  O! 

There  was  an  old  sow  with  three  little  pigs, 
and  as  she  had  not  enough  to  keep  them, 
she  sent  them  out  to  seek  their  fortune.  The 
first  that  went  off  met  a  man  with  a  bundle 
of  straw,  and  said  to  him: 

"  Please,  man,  give  me  that  straw  to  build 
me  a  house.' ' 

Which  the  man  did,  and  the  little  pig  built 
a  house  with  it.  Presently  came  along  a 
wolf,  and  knocked  at  the  door,  and  said: 

"Little  pig,  little  pig,  let  me  come  in." 

To  which  the  pig  answered: 

"No,  no,  by  the  hair  of  my  chinny,  chin, 
chin!" 

The  wolf  then  answered  to  that: 

"Then  I '11  huff,  and  I  '11  puff,  and  I  '11  blow 
your  house  in." 

So  he  huffed,  and  he  puffed,  and  he  blew 
his  house  in,  and  ate  up  the  little  pig. 

1  From  "English  Fairy  Tales."  By  permission  of  the  publishers,  G.  P. 
Putnam's  Sons,  New  York  and  London. 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK       in 

The  second  little  pig  met  a  man  with  a 
bundle  of  furze,  and  said: 

"  Please,  man,  give  me  that  furze  to  build 
a  house.' ' 

Which  the  man  did,  and  the  pig  built  his 
house.     Then  along  came  the  wolf,  and  said: 

"  Little  pig,  little  pig,  let  me  come  in.,, 

"No,  no,  by  the  hair  of  my  chinny,  chin, 
chin!" 

"Then  I'll  puff,  and  111  huff,  and  I'll  blow 
your  house  in." 

So  he  huffed,  and  he  puffed,  and  he  puffed, 
and  he  huffed,  and  at  last  he  blew  the  house 
down,  and  he  ate  up  the  little  pig. 

The  third  little  pig  met  a  man  with  a  load 
of  bricks,  and  said: 

"Please,  man,  give  me  those  bricks  to  build 
a  house  with." 

So  the  man  gave  him  the  bricks,  and  he  built 
his  house  with  them.  And  the  wolf  came, 
as  he  did  to  the  other  little  pigs,  and  said: 

"Little  pig,  little  pig,  let  me  come  in." 

"No,  no,  by  the  hair  of  my  chinny,  chin, 
chin!" 

"Then  Til  huff,  and  I'll  puff,  and  I'll 
blow  your  house  in." 


ii2  THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

Well,  he  huffed,  and  he  puffed,  and  he 
huffed,  and  he  puffed,  and  he  puffed  and  he 
huffed;  but  he  could  not  get  the  house  down. 
When  he  found  that  he  could  not,  with  all 
his  huffing  and  puffing,  blow  the  house 
down,  he  said: 

"Little  pig,  I  know  where  there  is  a  nice 
field  of  turnips." 

"Where?"  said  the  little  pig. 

"Oh,  in  Mr.  Smith's  Home-field,  and  if 
you  will  be  ready  to-morrow  morning  I  will 
call  for  you,  and  we  will  go  together,  and 
get  some  for  dinner." 

"Very  well,"  said  the  little  pig,  "I  will  be 
ready.     What  time  do  you  mean  to  go?" 

"Oh,  at  six  o'clock." 

Well,  the  little  pig  got  up  at  five,  and  got 
the  turnips  before  the  wolf  came  (which  he 
did  about  six)  and  who  said: 

"Little  pig,  are  you  ready?" 

The  little  pig  said:  "Ready!  I  have  been 
and  come  back  again,  and  got  a  nice  potful 
for  dinner." 

The  wolf  felt  very  angry  at  this,  but  thought 
that  he  would  be  up  to  the  little  pig  somehow 
or  other,  so  he  said: 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK  113 

"Little  pig,  I  know  where  there  is  a  nice 
apple  tree." 

"Where?"  said  the  pig. 

"Down  at  Merry-garden,"  replied  the  wolf. 
"  If  you  will  not  deceive  me  I  will  come  for  you 
at  five  o'clock  to-morrow  and  get  some  apples. ' ' 

Well,  the  little  pig  bustled  up  the  next 
morning  at  four  o'clock,  and  went  off  for  the 
apples,  hoping  to  get  back  before  the  wolf 
came;  but  he  had  farther  to  go,  and  had  to 
climb  the  tree,  so  that  just  as  he  was  coming 
down  from  it  he  saw  the  wolf  coming,  which, 
as  you  may  suppose,  frightened  him  very 
much.     When  the  wolf  came  up  he  said: 

"Little  pig,  what!  are  you  here  before  me? 
Are  they  nice  apples?" 

"Yes,  very,"  said  the  little  pig.  "I  will 
throw  you  down  one." 

And  he  threw  it  so  far,  that,  while  the  wolf 
was  gone  to  pick  it  up,  the  little  pig  jumped 
down  and  ran  home.  The  next  day  the  wolf 
came  again,  and  said  to  the  little  pig: 

"Little  pig,  there  is  a  fair  at  Shanklin  this 
afternoon.     Will  you  go?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  the  pig,  "I  will  go.  What 
time  shall  you  be  ready?" 

8 


114         THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

"At  three,"  said  the  wolf.  So  the  little 
pig  went  off  before  the  time  as  usual,  and  got 
to  the  fair,  and  bought  a  butter  churn,  which 
he  was  going  home  with  when  he  saw  the 
wolf  coming.  Then  he  could  not  tell  what 
to  do.  So  he  got  into  the  churn  to  hide,  and 
by  so  doing  turned  it  round,  and  it  rolled 
down  the  hill  with  the  pig  in  it,  which  fright- 
ened the  wolf  so  much  that  he  ran- home  with- 
out going  to  the  fair.  He  went  to  the  little 
pig's  house,  and  told  him  how  frightened  he 
had  been  by  a  great  round  thing  which  came 
down  the  hill  past  him.  Then  the  little  pig 
said: 

"Hah,  I  frightened  you,  then.  I  had  been 
to  the  fair  and  bought  a  butter  churn,  and 
when  I  saw  you  I  got  into  it,  and  rolled  down 
the  hill." 

Then  the  wolf  was  very  angry  indeed,  and 
declared  he  would  eat  up  the  little  pig,  and 
that  he  would  get  down  the  chimney  after 
him.  When  the  little  pig  saw  what  he  was 
about,  he  hung  on  the  pot  full  of  water,  and 
made  up  a  blazing  fire,  and,  just  as  the  wolf 
was  coming  down,  took  off  the  cover,  and  in 
fell  the  wolf.    So  that  was  the  end  of  the  old 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK  115 

wolf,  and  the  little  pig  lived  happy  ever  after- 
ward. 

Joseph  Jacobs. 

THE   SHEEP  AND   THE   PIG  THAT 
BUILT  THE  HOUSE 

There  was  once  upon  a  time  a  sheep  who 
stood  in  his  pen  to  be  fattened,  so  he  lived 
well  and  every  day  he  had  all  that  he  could 
eat.  So  it  went  on  until  one  day  when  the 
dairy  maid  came  to  bring  him  his  food,  she 
said: 

"Eat  away,  sheep;  you  won't  be  here  much 
longer.  To-morrow  we  are  going  to  kill 
you." 

But  the  sheep  ate  until  he  was  ready  to 
burst;  and  when  he  had  finished  he  butted 
out  the  door  of  his  pen  and  took  his  way  to 
the  neighboring  farm. 

There  he  went  straight  to  the  pigsty,  where 
there  lived  a  pig  whom  he  had  met  out  on 
the  common. 

"Good  day,"  said  the  sheep,  "and  thanks 
for  your  kindness  the  last  time  we  met." 

"Good  day,"  said  the  pig,  "and  the  same 
to  you." 


n6         THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

"Do  you  know  why  they  feed  you  and 
make  you  so  comfortable ?"  said  the  sheep. 

"No,"  said  the  pig. 

"  Because  they  are  going  to  kill  you  and  eat 
you,"  said  the  sheep. 

11  Much  good  may  it  do  them, "  said  the  pig. 

"  If  you  will  come  with  me, "  said  the  sheep, 
"we  will  go  to  the  woods  and  build  us  a 
house,  and  there  we  can  live  very  comfort- 
ably." 

Yes,  the  pig  was  willing.  "Good  company 
is  a  fine  thing, "  he  said,  and  so  the  two  set  off. 

When  they  had  gone  a  bit  farther  they  met 
a  goose. 

"Good  day,  good  sirs,"  said  the  goose, 
"and  thanks  for  our  last  merry  meeting. 
Where  are  you  going  to-day?" 

" Good  day  to  you, "  said  the  sheep.  "You 
must  know  we  were  too  well  treated  at  home, 
and  so  we  are  going  to  the  woods  to  build 
a  house  for  ourselves. " 

"May  I  go  with  you?"  said  the  goose. 
"For  it's  child's  play  when  three  share  the 
day." 

"What  can  you  do  to  build  a  house?"  said 
the  pig. 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK  117 

"I  can  pull  moss  and  stuff  it  in  the  cracks 
and  make  your  house  tight  and  warm, "  said 
the  goose. 

Yes,  she  might  go  with  them,  for  above  all 
things  the  pig  wished  to  be  warm  and  com- 
fortable. 

So  when  they  had  gone  a  little  farther,  for 
the  goose  found  it  hard  work  to  keep  up  with 
them,  they  met  a  hare,  who  came  frisking 
out  of  the  wood. 

"Good  day,  sirs,  and  thanks  for  our  last 
merry  meeting.  How  far  are  you  traveling 
to-day ?"  said  he. 

"Good  day,  and  the  same  to  you, "  said 
the  sheep.  "We  were  far  too  well  off  at 
home,  and  so  we  are  going  to  the  wood  to 
build  us  a  house;  for  you  know  there  is 
nothing  like  home. " 

"As  for  that,"  said  the  hare,  "I  have  a 
home  in  every  bush;  but  yet  I  have  often 
said  in  winter,  if  I  only  live  till  summer  I'll 
build  me  a  house;  and  so  I  have  half  a  mind 
to  go  with  you. " 

"We  might  take  you  along  to  frighten  away 
the  dogs,"  said  the  pig,  "but  I  don't  know 
what  you  can  do  toward  building  a  house." 


n8        THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

" There  is  always  work  for  willing  hands," 
said  the  hare.  "I  have  teeth  to  gnaw  pegs, 
and  paws  to  drive  them  into  the  wall,  so  I 
can  very  well  set  up  to  be  a  carpenter." 

Yes,  he  too  might  go  with  them  and  help 
to  build  the  house. 

When  they  had  gone  a  bit  farther  they  met 
a  cock. 

"Good  day,  good  sirs,"  said  the  cock, 
"where  are  you  going  to-day,  gentlemen?" 

"Good  day,  and  the  same  to  you,"  said 
the  sheep.  "At  home  we  were  too  well  off, 
and  so  we  are  going  to  the  woods  to  build 
us  a  house." 

"Well,"  said  the  cock,  "that  is  just  my 
case.  Now,  if  I  might  have  leave  to  join 
such  a  gallant  company,  I  also  would  like 
to  go  to  the  woods  and  build  a  house." 

"How  can  you  ever  help  us  to  build  a 
house?"  said  the  pig. 

"Oh,"  said  the  cock,  "I  am  up  early  and 
I  can  wake  every  one." 

"Very  true, "  said  the  pig.  " Let  him  come 
with  us." 

So  they  all  set  off  to  the  wood  to  build  a 
house.     The  pig  cut  down  the  timber  and  the 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK  nc 

sheep  drew  it  home;  the  hare  was  carpenter, 
and  gnawed  pegs  and  bolts,  and  hammered 
them  into  the  walls  and  roof ;  the  goose  pulled 
moss  and  stuffed  it  into  the  cracks;  the  cock 
crew  and  looked  out  that  they  did  not  over- 
sleep in  the  morning.  And  when  the  house 
was  ready,  and  the  roof  lined  with  birch  bark 
and  covered  with  turf,  there  they  lived  by 
themselves  and  were  well  and  merry. 

"  'Tis  good  to  travel  east  and  west,"  said 
the  sheep,  "but  after  all,  a  home  is  best. " 

Adapted  from  the  Norwegian. 

DRAKESBILL 

Drakesbill  was  a  very  little  fellow,  but  he 
had  learned  to  be  a  great  worker,  and  all 
that  he  earned  he  hid  away  for  safe  keeping, 
so  that  before  he  was  grown  he  had  a  bagful 
of  gold  hidden  in  the  chimney  cupboard. 
But  when  one  has  gold  pieces  the  fact  is 
apt  to  leak  out,  and  soon  the  king  heard  of 
DrakesbiU's  great  wealth.  Now  the  king 
was  always  in  need  of  money,  so  he  sent  for 
Drakesbill  and  asked  to  borrow  the  gold 
of  him,  assuring  him  that  in  a  year's  time  he 
would  pay  it  back. 


120  THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

Drakesbill  was  a  good  fellow,  and  he  readily 
agreed  to  loan  his  majesty  his  gold. 

Then  Drakesbill  worked  harder  than  ever, 
thinking  that  he  would  surely  be  a  great  man 
some  day. 

A  year  went  by,  two  years,  but  still  the  king 
had  not  returned  Drakesbill's  money,  nor  did 
he  answer  the  letters  the  little  fellow  sent  him. 

Finally  Drakesbill  said,  "I  shall  have  to 
go  to  the  king  and  demand  my  money."  So 
without  delay  he  set  off  for  the  king's  palace. 

The  day  was  fine,  and  as  he  walked  along, 
as  fresh  as  a  daisy,  whom  should  he  meet 
but  his  friend  Fox  returning  from  his  nightly 
prowling  in  the  barnyards. 

"Good  morning,  Drakesbill,"  said  the  fox. 
" Where  are  you  bound?" 

"Oh,  I'm  going  to  the  king  to  get  my 
money  back,"  answered  Drakesbill. 

"Let  me  go  with  you,"  said  the  fox. 

"A  friend  in  need  is  very  convenient," 
said  Drakesbill  to  himself.  "All  right,  friend 
Fox,"  said  he,  "make  yourself  very  small 
and  creep  into  my  pocket. " 

The  fox  did  as  he  was  bid,  and  away  went 
Drakesbill  as  merry  as  a  grig. 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK  121 

A  little  farther  on  Drakesbill  came  upon 
his  friend  Ladder  leaning  against  the  wall. 

1  *  Good  morning,  friend, ' '  said  she.  ' '  Whither 
away  this  fine  spring  day?  " 

"  I  am  going  to  ask  the  king  to  pay  me  what 
he  owes  me, "  said  Drakesbill. 

"Let  me  go  with  you, "  said  the  ladder. 
"Perhaps  I  can  be  of  use  to  you. " 

"One  cannot  have  too  many  friends," 
thought  Drakesbill,  and  aloud  he  said,  "All 
right;  make  yourself  very  small  and  creep 
under  my  wing." 

The  ladder  did  as  she  was  bid,  and  Drakes- 
bill continued  on  his  way.  Soon  he  came  to 
his  good  friend,  the  river. 

"Good  morning,  little  one,"  said  the  river. 
"Whither  are  you  bound?" 

"Oh,  I  am  going  to  ask  the  king  to  pay  me 
my  money, "  said  Drakesbill. 

"Please  let  me  go  with  you, "  said  the  river. 
"Perhaps  you  will  need  me  before  your 
journey  is  over." 

"All  right,  little  friend,"  said  Drakesbill. 
"  Make  yourself  very  small  and  creep  into  my 
pocket." 

So  the  river  did  as  she  was  bid,  and  then 


122         THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

Drakesbill  went  singing  along  his  way.  A  little 
farther  on  he  met  the  waspnest  out  for  an 
airing. 

"Good  morning,  neighbor,"  said  the  wasp- 
nest.    "Where  are  you  going?" 

"I  am  going  to  ask  the  king  to  pay  me  what 
he  owes  me,"  said  Drakesbill. 

"Let  me  go  with  you,"  said  the  waspnest. 
"I  have  never  seen  the  king." 

"It  is  better  to  be  on  the  right  side  of  a 
waspnest,  "  thought  Drakesbill.  "Come,  then, 
friend  Waspnest,"  said  he;  "make  yourself 
very  small  and  creep  into  my  pocket." 

So  the  waspnest  made  itself  very  small, 
and  the  wasps  packed  themselves  closely 
together  and  stored  themselves  away  in 
Drakesbill's  pocket,  while  he  continued  on 
his  way. 

By  and  by  he  came  to  the  king's  palace. 
Reaching  up  as  high  as  he  could,  Drakesbill 
knocked,  ratty,  tat,  *tat,  on  the  door.  Up 
jumped  the  king's  guard. 

"What  do  you  want?"  said  he. 

"I  have  come  to  see  the  king,"  replied 
Drakesbill. 

"The  king  is  busy  counting  his  money," 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK  123 

said  the  guard;  "he  cannot  be  bothered  by 
little  fellows  like  you." 

"But  the  king  owes  me  money,"  said 
Drakesbill.  "Just  tell  him  Drakesbill  is 
here,  and  I  am  sure  he  will  let  me  in." 

Off  went  the  guard  with  the  message. 

"Drakesbill,  indeed!"  roared  the  king. 
"Show  him  into  the  poultry  yard.  That  is 
His  proper  place." 

"Step  this  way,"  said  the  guard  to 
Drakesbill,  who  was  proud  and  happy  because 
at  last  he  was  to  meet  the  king. 

But  before  Drakesbill  knew  what  had  hap- 
pened to  him,  the  guard  had  opened  the  door 
into  the  poultry  yard  and  thrust  him  in.  The 
fowls  looked  at  him,  and  seeing  he  was  alone 
and  friendless,  one  and  all  began  to  peck  him. 

Drakesbill  feared  they  would  kill  him,  when 
suddenly  he  remembered  friend  Fox,  hidden 
away  in  his  pocket. 

"Friend  Fox,"  he  cried,  "help  me,  or  I 
shall  be  killed!" 

The  fox  did  not  need  a  second  bidding. 
Out  he  sprang,  and  snip,  snap,  off  went  the 
heads  of  geese,  and  turkeys,  and  ducks,  until 
not  one  was  left  of  all  the  crowd. 


124  THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

Hearing  the  confusion,  the  poultry  woman 
and  the  cook  and  the  king's  guard  all  ran  into 
the  yard,  but  there  was  only  Drakesbill, 
strutting  about  unharmed,  and  calling  out, 
"Quack!  quack!  quack!  I  want  my  money 
back!" 

Away  they  ran  to  tell  the  king  what  had 
happened. 

"Wants  his  money  back,  does  he?"  roared 
the  king  in  a  rage.  "Throw  him  down  the 
well,  and  see  if  that  will  cool  his  spirits." 

Then  the  cook  and  the  guard  and  the 
poultry  woman  rushed  into  the  yard  and 
seized  Drakesbill,  and  down  he  went  tumbling 
to  the  bottom  of  the  well. 

Drakesbill  was  frightened  almost  to  death 
until  he  remembered  the  ladder  tucked  away 
under  his  wing. 

"Oh,  friend  Ladder,"  cried  he,  "come  out 
and  help  me!" 

Out  jumped  the  ladder,  and  planting  her 
feet  firmly  on  the  bottom  of  the  well,  she 
reached  up  her  long  arms  to  the  top,  and  hop, 
hop,  hop,  up  went  Drakesbill. 

When  the  king  looked  out  of  his  window 
and    saw     Drakesbill,    unharmed,    strutting 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK  125 

around  the  yard  and  still  calling  loudly  for 
his  money,  he  was  more  angry  than  before. 

"What!"  shouted  the  king.  "Does  he 
defy  me?  Build  a  great  fire  and  burn  him. 
He  cannot  escape  that!" 

So  they  built  a  great  fire,  but  just  as  they 
were  going  to  throw  Drakesbill  into  the 
flames  he  remembered  friend  River  hidden 
away  in  his  pocket. 

"Come,  River!"  called  the  little  fellow. 
"If  you  do  not  help  me  I  shall  perish!" 

Out  jumped  the  river,  and  soon  the  water 
had  spread  over  all  the  courtyard,  and  the 
fire  was  a  pile  of  smouldering  cinders. 

But  the  river  did  not  stop  at  this.  Into 
the  palace  the  water  poured,  covering  all  the 
floor.  The  king  and  his  guards  climbed  on 
the  chairs  and  tables,  but  Drakesbill  swam 
about  in  the  water  as  happy  as  could  be. 
"I  want  my  money  back,  I  want  my  money 
back,"  sang  he. 

"Can  no  one  stop  this  insolent  fellow?" 
shouted  the  king,  beside  himself  with  rage. 

The  guards  were  about  to  seize  poor 
Drakesbill  when  he  bethought  himself  of  the 
waspnest,  tucked  away  in  his  pocket. 


126 THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

"Come,  Waspnest, "  cried  he,  "now  is  the 
time  to  show  your  friendship  for  me." 

Out  sprang  the  waspnest,  and  calling  to 
his  children,  away  they  flew,  stinging  every 
one  in  sight.  The  king  and  the  courtiers 
and  the  guards  could  not  escape,  try  as  they 
might,  so  out  of  the  palace  they  ran,  so  fast 
and  so  far  that  no  one  ever  saw  them  again. 

When  the  people  in  the  streets  heard  the 
confusion  and  saw  the  king  running  away, 
they  came  hurrying  into  the  palace,  to  see 
what  it  was  all  about. 

As  Drakesbill  was  very  tired  with  fluttering 
about,  he  flew  up  into  the  king's  chair  to  rest. 
When  the  people  saw  him  sitting  there  they 
cried,  "Drakesbill  is  king!  Drakesbill  is  king! 
Long  live  the  king!"  and  they  brought  the 
crown  and  placed  it  on  his  head. 

"He  does  not  look  much  like  a  king," 
whispered  one  idle  fellow  to  another,  but  the 
people  hushed  them. 

"At  least  he  will  not  spend  all  our  money, " 
said  they. 

So  Drakesbill  reigned  over  that  country 
for  many  years,  and  peace  and  plenty  blessed 
the  land. 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK  127 

MR.  MIACCA1 

Tommy  Grimes  was  sometimes  a  good  boy, 
and  sometimes  a  bad  boy;  and  when  he  was 
a  bad  boy,  he  was  a  very  bad  boy.  Now  his 
mother  used  to  say  to  him:  ''Tommy, 
Tommy,  be  a  good  boy,  and  don't  go  out  of 
the  street,  or  else  Mr.  Miacca  will  take  you." 
But  still  when  he  was  a  bad  boy  he  would 
go  out  of  the  street ;  and  one  day,  sure  enough, 
he  had  scarcely  got  round  the  corner,  when 
Mr.  Miacca  did  catch  him  and  popped  him 
into  a  bag  upside  down,  and  took  him  off 
to  his  house. 

When  Mr.  Miacca  got  Tommy  inside  he 
pulled  him  out  of  the  bag  and  set  him  down, 
and  felt  his  arms  and  legs.  "You're  rather 
tough,"  says  he;  "but  you're  all  I've  got 
for  supper,  and  you'll  not  taste  bad  boiled. 
But  body  o'  me,  I've  forgot  the  herbs,  and 
it's  bitter  you'll  taste  without  herbs.  Sally! 
Here,  I  say,  Sally!"  and  he  called  Mrs. 
Miacca. 

So  Mrs.  Miacca  came  out  of  another  room 
and  said:  "What  d'ye  want,  my  dear?" 

1  From  "English  Fairy   Tales."       By  permission   of  the   publishers,  G.  P. 
Putnam's  Sons,  New  York  and  London. 


128  THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

"Oh,  here's  a  little  boy  for  supper,"  said 
Mr.  Miacca,  "and  I've  forgot  the  herbs. 
Mind  him,  will  ye,  while  I  go  for  them. " 

"All  right,  my  love,"  says  Mrs.  Miacca, 
and  off  he  goes. 

Then  Tommy  Grimes  said  to  Mrs.  Miacca: 
1 '  Does  Mr.  Miacca  always  have  little  boys 
for  supper?" 

"Mostly,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Miacca, 
"if  little  boys  are  bad  enough,  and  get  in 
his  way." 

"And  don't  you  have  anything  else  but 
boy-meat?     No  pudding?"  asked  Tommy. 

"Ah,  I  loves  pudding,"  says  Mrs.  Miacca. 
"But  it's  not  often  the  likes  of  me  gets 
pudding." 

"Why,  my  mother  is  making  a  pudding 
this  very  day,"  said  Tommy  Grimes,  "and 
I  am  sure  she'd  give  you  some,  if  I  ask  her. 
Shall  I  run  and  get  some?" 

"Now,  that's  a  thoughtful  boy,"  said  Mrs. 
Miacca;  "only  don't  be  long,  and  be  sure  to 
be  back  for  supper." 

So  off  Tommy  peltered,  and  right  glad 
he  was  to  get  off  so  cheap;  and  for  many  a 
long  day  he  was  as  good  as  good  could  be, 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK  129 

and  never  went  round  the  corner  of  the 
street.  But  he  couldn't  always  be  good; 
and  one  day  he  went  round  the  corner,  and 
as  luck  would  have  it,  he  had  scarcely  got 
round  it  when  Mr.  Miacca  grabbed  him  up, 
popped  him  in  his  bag,  and  took  him  home. 

When  he  got  him  there  Mr.  Miacca  dropped 
him  out;  and  when  he  saw  him,  he  said: 
"Ah,  you're  the  youngster  that  served  me 
and  my  missus  such  a  shabby  trick,  leaving 
us  without  any  supper.  Well,  you  shan't 
do  it  again.  I'll  watch  over  you  myself. 
Here,  get  under  the  sofa,  and  I'll  set  on  it 
and  watch  the  pot  boil  for  you." 

So  poor  Tommy  Grimes  had  to  creep  under 
the  sofa,  and  Mr.  Miacca  sat  on  it  and  waited 
for  the  pot  to  boil.  And  they  waited,  and 
they  waited,  but  still  the  pot  didn't  boil, 
till  at  last  Mr.  Miacca  got  tired  of  waiting, 
and  he  said:  "Here,  you  under  there,  I'm 
not  going  to  wait  any  longer;  put  out  your 
leg,  and  I'll  stop  your  giving  us  the  slip." 

So  Tommy  put  out  a  leg,  and  Mr.  Miacca 
got  a  chopper,  and  chopped  it  off,  and  pops 
it  in  the  pot. 

Suddenly  he  calls  out:     "Sally,  my  dear, 


I3Q THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

Sally!"  and  nobody  answered.     So  he  went 

into   the  next  room   to  look   out   for   Mrs. 

Miacca,  and  while  he  was  there  Tommy  crept 

out  from  under  the  sofa  and  ran  out  of  the 

door.     For  it  was  a  leg  of  the  sofa  that  he 

had  put  out. 

So  Tommy  Grimes  ran  home,  and  he  never 

went  round  the  corner  again  till  he  was  old 

enough  to  go  alone. 

Joseph  Jacobs. 

THE  STREET  MUSICIANS1 

A  donkey  who  had  carried  sacks  to  the 
mill  for  his  master  a  great  many  years  became 
so  weak  that  he  could  not  work  for  a  living 
any  longer.  His  master  thought  that  he 
would  get  rid  of  his  old  servant,  that  he  might 
save  the  cost  of  his  food.  The  donkey  heard 
of  this,  and  made  up  his  mind  to  run  away. 
So  he  took  the  road  to  a  great  city  where  he 
had  often  heard  the  street  band  play.  ' '  For, ' ' 
thought  be,  "I  can  make  music  as  well  as 
they." 

He  had  gone  but  a  little  way  when  he  came 
to  a  dog  stretched  out  in  the  middle  of  the 

1  From  "Classic  Stories  for  the  Little  Ones."  By  permission  of  the  Public 
School  Publishing  Co.,  Bloomington,  III. 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK  131 

road  and  panting  for  breath,  as  if  tired  from 
running. 

"Why  are  you  panting  so,  friend ?"  asked 
the  donkey. 

"Oh,  dear!"  he  replied.  "Now  that  I  am 
old  and  growing  weaker  and  weaker,  and  am 
not  able  to  hunt  any  more,  my  master  has 
ordered  that  I  be  killed.  So  I  have  run  away, 
but  how  I  am  to  earn  a  living  I  am  sure  I  do 
not  know." 

"Will  you  come  with  me?"  said  the  don- 
key. "You  see,  I  am  going  to  try  my  luck 
as  a  street  musician  in  the  city.  I  think 
we  might  easily  earn  a  living  by  music.  You 
can  play  the  bass  drum  and  I  can  play  the 
flute." 

"I  will  go,"  said  the  dog,  and  they  both 
walked  on  together. 

Not  long  after  they  saw  a  cat  sitting  in 
the  road,  with  a  face  as  dismal  as  three  days 
of  rainy  weather. 

"Now  what  has  happened  to  you,  old 
Whiskers?"  said  the  donkey. 

"How  can  I  be  happy  when  I  am  in  fear 
for  my  life? "  said  the  cat.  "I  am  getting  old, 
and  my  teeth  are   only  stumps.     I  cannot 


132 THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

catch  mice  any  longer,  and  I  like  to  lie 
behind  the  stove  and  purr.  But  when  I 
found  that  they  were  going  to  drown  me, 
away  I  ran  as  fast  as  my  four  legs  could  carry 
me.  But  now  that  I  have  come  away,  what 
am  I  to  do?" 

"Go  with  us  to  the  city, "  said  the  donkey. 
"You  often  give  night  concerts,  I  know,  so 
you  can  easily  become  a  street  musician." 

"With  all  my  heart,"  said  the  cat,  so  she 
walked  on  with  them. 

After  traveling  quite  a  long  distance  the 
three  "  runaways  "  came  to  a  farmyard,  and 
on  the  gate  stood  a  rooster,  crowing  with  all 
his  might. 

"Why  are  you  standing  there  and  making 
such  a  fuss?"  said  the  donkey. 

"I  will  tell  you,"  replied  the  rooster.  "I 
heard  the  cook  say  that  there  is  company 
coming  on  Wednesday  and  she  will  want  me 
to  put  into  the  soup.  That  evening  my  head 
will  be  cut  off,  so  I  shall  crow  at  the  top  of 
my  voice  as  long  as  I  can. " 

)ti Listen,  Red  Comb,"  said  the  donkey. 
"Would  you  like  to  run  away  with  us?  We 
are   going    to   the   city,    and    you   will   find 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK  133 

something  better  there  than  to  be  made  into 
soup.  You  have  a  fine  voice,  and  we  are 
all  musicians.' ' 

The  rooster  was  glad  to  go,  and  all  four 
went  on  together. 

They  could  not  reach  the  city  in  one  day, 
and  evening  came  on  just  as  they  reached  a 
wood,  so  they  agreed  to  stay  there  all  night. 

The  donkey  and  the  dog  lay  down  under  a 
large  tree,  the  cat  stretched  herself  out  on 
one  of  the  branches,  and  the  rooster  flew 
to  the  top,  where  he  felt  quite  safe. 

Before  they  slept  the  rooster,  who  from  his 
high  roost  could  see  every  way,  spied  far  off 
a  tiny  light,  and  calling  to  his  comrades  told 
them  he  thought  they  were  near  a  house  in 
which  a  light  was  shining. 

"Then, "  said  the  donkey,  "we  must  rouse 
up  and  go  on  to  this  light,  for  no  doubt  we 
shall  find  a  good  stopping  place  there. " 

The  dog  said  he  would  be  glad  of  a  little 
piece  of  meat,  or  a  couple  of  bones  if  he  could 
get  nothing  more. 

Very  soon  they  were  on  their  way  to  the 
place  where  the  light  shone.  It  grew  larger 
and  brighter  as  they  came  nearer  to  it,  till 


134  THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

they  saw  that  it  came  from  the  window  of  a 
small  hut.  The  donkey,  who  was  the  tallest, 
went  near  and  looked  in. 

"What  is  to  be  seen,  old  Gray  Horse?" 
said  the  rooster. 

"What  do  I  see?"  answered  the  donkey. 
"Why,  a  table  spread  with  plenty  to  eat  and 
drink,  and  robbers  sitting  at  it  and  having 
a  good  time." 

"That  ought  to  be  our  supper,"  said  the 
rooster. 

"Yes,  yes,"  the  donkey  answered,  "how 
I  wish  we  were  inside." 

Then  they  talked  together  about  how  they 
should  drive  the  robbers  away.  At  last  they 
made  a  plan  that  they  thought  would  work. 
The  donkey  was  to  stand  on  his  hind  legs  and 
place  his  forefeet  on  the  windowsill.  The 
dog  was  to  stand  on  his  back.  The  cat  was 
to  stand  on  the  dog's  shoulders,  and  the  rooster 
promised  to  light  upon  the  cat's  head. 

As  soon  as  they  were  all  ready  they  began 
to  play  their  music  together.  The  donkey 
brayed,  the  dog  barked,  the  cat  mewed,  the 
rooster  crowed.  They  made  such  a  noise 
that  the  window  rattled. 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK  135 


The  robbers,  hearing  the  dreadful  din, 
were  terribly  frightened,  and  ran  as  fast  as 
they  could  to  the  woods.  The  four  comrades, 
rushing  in,  hurried  to  the  table  and  ate  as 
if  they  had  had  nothing  for  a  month.  When 
they  had  finished  their  meal  they  put  out  the 
Light,  and  each  one  chose  a  good  bed  for 
the  night.  The  donkey  lay  down  at  full  length 
in  the  yard,  the  dog  crouched  behind  the  door, 
the  cat  rolled  herself  up  on  the  hearth  in  front 
of  the  fire,  while  the  rooster  flew  to  the  roof 
of  the  hut.  They  were  all  so  tired  after  their 
long  journey  that  they  were  soon  fast  asleep. 

About  midnight  one  of  the  robbers,  seeing 
that  the  light  was  out  and  all  quiet,  said  to 
his  chief:  "I  do  not  think  that  we  had  any 
reason  to  be  afraid,  after  all." 

Then  he  called  one  of  his  robbers  and  sent 
him  to  the  house  to  see  if  it  was  all  right. 

The  robber,  finding  everything  quiet,  went 
into  the  kitchen  to  light  a  match.  Seeing 
the  glaring,  fiery  eyes  of  the  cat,  he  thought 
they  wrere  live  coals,  and  held  a  match  toward 
them  that  he  might  light  it.  But  Puss  was 
frightened;  she  spit  at  him  and  scratched  his 
face.     This  frightened  the  robber  so  terribly 


136        THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

that  he  rushed  to  the  door,  but  the  dog,  who 
lay  there,  sprang  out  at  him  and  bit  him  on 
the  leg  as  he  went  by. 

In  the  yard  he  ran  against  the  donkey,  who 
gave  him  a  savage  kick,  while  the  rooster  on 
the  roof  cried  out  as  loud  as  he  could,  "  Cock- 
a-doodle-doo. " 

Then  the  robber  ran  back  to  his  chief. 

"Oh!  oh!"  he  cried,  "in  that  house  is  a 
horrible  woman,  who  flew  at  me  and  scratched 
me  down  the  face  with  her  long  fingers. 
Then  by  the  door  stood  a  man  with  a  knife, 
who  stabbed  me  in  the  leg,  and  out  in  the 
yard  lay  a  monster  who  struck  me  a  hard 
blow  with  a  huge  club;  and  up  on  the  roof 
sat  the  judge,  who  cried,  'Bring  me  the 
scoundrel  here.'  You  may  be  sure  I  ran 
away  as  fast  as  I  could  go." 

The  robbers  never  went  back  to  the  house, 
but  got  away  from  that  place  as  quickly  as 
they  could.  The  four  musicians  liked  their 
new  home  so  well  that  they  thought  no  more 
of  going  on  to  the  city.  The  last  we  heard 
of  them,  they  were  still  there  and  having 
happy  times  together. 

Lida  Brown  McMurry. 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK  137 

ROBIN   REDBREAST 

Good-by,  good-by  to  summer! 

For  summer's  nearly  done; 
The  garden  smiling  faintly, 

Cool  breezes  in  the  sun; 
Our  thrushes  now  are  silent, 

Our  swallows  flown  away, — 
But  Robin's  here,  in  coat  of  brown, 

And  ruddy  breastknot  gay. 
Robin,  Robin  Redbreast, 

O  Robin  dear! 
Robin  sings  so  sweetly 

In  the  falling  of  the  year. 

Bright  yellow,  red,  and  orange, 

The  leaves  come  down  in  hosts; 
The  trees  are  Indian  princes, 

But  soon  they'll  turn  to  ghosts; 
The  scanty  pears  and  apples 

Hang  russet  on  the  bough; 
It's  autumn,  autumn,  autumn  late, 

'T  will  soon  be  winter  now. 
Robin,  Robin  Redbreast, 

O  Robin  dear! 
For  pinching  days  are  near. 


138        THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

The  fireside  for  the  cricket, 

The  wheat  stack  for  the  mouse, 
When  trembling  night  winds  whistle 

And  moan  all  round  the  house. 
The  frosty  ways  like  iron, 

The  branches  plumed  with  snow, — 
Alas!  in  winter  dead  and  dark, 

Where  can  poor  Robin  go? 
Robin,  Robin  Redbreast, 

O  Robin  dear! 
And  a  crumb  of  bread  for  Robin, 

His  little  heart  to  cheer. 

William  Allingham. 

WEE  ROBIN'S  CHRISTMAS  DAY1 

There  was  once  an  old  gray  pussy-cat, 
and  she  went  down  by  the  waterside,  and 
there  she  saw  wee  Robin  Redbreast,  hopping 
on  a  brier. 

And  Pussy-Cat  said,  "  Where  are  you  going, 
Wee  Robin?" 

And  Wee  Robin  said,  "I  am  going  away 
to  the  king,  to  sing  him  a  song  this  good 
Christmas  morning." 

1  From  "Scottish  Fairy  and  Folk  Tales,"  collected  by  Sir  George  Douglas. 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK  139 

And  Pussy-Cat  said,  "Come  here,  Wee 
Robin,  and  I  will  let  you  see  the  bonny  white 
ring  around  my  neck." 

But  Wee  Robin  said,  "No,  no,  Gray 
Pussy;  no,  no.  You  worried  the  wee  mousie, 
but  you  shall  not  worry  me." 

So  Wee  Robin  flew  away  and  away,  until 
he  came  to  a  turf  wall,  and  there  he  saw  a 
gray  greedy  hawk. 

And  the  gray  greedy  hawk  said,  "Where 
are  you  going,  Wee  Robin?" 

And.  Wee  Robin  said,  "I  am  going  away 
to  the  king,  to  sing  him  a  song  this  good 
Christmas  morning." 

And  the  gray  greedy  hawk  said,  "Come 
here,  Wee  Robin,  and  I  will  let  you  see  the 
bonny  white  feather  in  my  wing." 

But  Wee  Robin  said,  "No,  no,  Gray  Greedy 
Hawk;  no,  no.  You  pecked  at  the  wee  lin- 
net, but  you  shall  not  peck  me." 

So  Wee  Robin  flew  away  until  he  came  to 
the  side  of  a  rock,  and  there  he  saw  a  sly 
fox  sitting. 

And  the  sly  fox  said,  "Where  are  you 
going,  Wee  Robin?" 

And  Wee  Robin  said,   "I  am  going  away 


i4<>  THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 


to  the  king  to  sing  him  a  song  this  good 
Christmas  morning." 

And  the  sly  fox  said,  "Come  here,  Wee 
Robin,  and  I  will  let  yon  see  the  bonny  white 
spot  on  the  tip  of  my  tail." 

But  Wee  Robin  said,  "No,  no,  Sly  Fox; 
no,  no.  You  worried  the  wee  lamb,  but 
you  shall  not  worry  me." 

Wee  Robin  flew  away  until  he  came  to  a 
bonnie  burnside,  and  there  he  saw  a  wee 
boy  sitting,  and  the  wee  boy  said, 

"Where  are  you  going,  Wee  Robin?" 

And  the  Wee  Robin  said,  "I  am  going 
away  to  the  king,  to  sing  him  a  song  this 
good  Christmas  morning." 

And  the  wee  boy  said,  "Come  here,  Wee 
Robin,  and  I  will  give  you  some  nice  crumbs 
out  of  my  pocket." 

But  Wee  Robin  said,  "No,  no,  Wee  Boy; 
no,  no.  You  threw  stones  at  the  chick-a-dee, 
but  you  shall  not  throw  stones  at  me." 

So  Wee  Robin  flew  away  and  away,  until 
he  came  to  the  king,  and  there  he  sat  on  a 
window  sill  and  sang  to  the  king  a  bonny 
song. 

And  the  king  said  to  the  queen,   "What 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK  141 

shall  we  give  to  Wee  Robin  for  singing  us 
this  bonny  song?" 

And  the  queen  said  to  the  king,  "I  think 
we  will  give  him  the  wee  wren  for  his 
wife." 

So  Wee  Robin  and  the  wee  wren  were 
married,  and  all  the  court  danced  at  the 
wedding.  Then  he  flew  away  home  to  his 
own  waterside,  and  hopped  on  a  brier. 

Adapted. 

SIR  ROBIN 

Rollicking  Robin  is  here  again. 
What  does  he  care  for  the  April  rain? 
Care  for  it?     Glad  of  it.     Does  n't  he  know 
That  the  April  rain  carries  off  the  snow, 
And  coaxes  out  leaves  to  shadow  his  nest, 
And  washes  his  pretty  red  Easter  vest, 
And  makes  the  juice  of  the  cherry  sweet, 
For  his  hungry  little  robins  to  eat? 

"Ha!  ha!  ha!"  hear  the  jolly  bird 

laugh. 
"That  is  n't  the  best  of  the  story,  by 
half!" 

Lucy  Larcom. 


i42        THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

THE  BIG  RED  APPLE1 

Bobby  was  a  little  boy  and  he  had  a 
grandpa. 

One  day  Bobby's  grandpa  sat  by  the  fire 
while  Bobby  lay  on  the  hearth  rug,  looking 
at  a  picture  book. 

"Ho,  ho!"  yawned  grandpa,  "I  wish  I  had 
a  big  red  apple!  I  could  show  you  how  to 
roast  it,  Bobby." 

Bobby  jumped  up  as  quick  as  a  flash. 
"I'll  get  you  one,"  he  said,  and  he  picked  up 
his  hat  and  ran  out  of  the  house  as  fast  as 
he  could  go.  He  knew  where  he  had  seen  an 
apple  tree  away  down  the  road — a  tree  all 
bright  with  big  red  apples. 

Bobby  ran  on  by  the  side  of  the  road, 
through  the  drift  of  fallen  leaves,  all  red  and 
yellow  and  brown.  The  leaves  made  a 
pleasant  noise  under  his  feet.  At  last  he 
came  to  the  big  apple  tree,  but  though  Bobby 
looked  and  looked  there  was  not  an  apple 
to  be  seen — not  an  apple  on  the  tree  nor  an 
apple  on  the  ground. 

"Oh!"  cried  Bobby,  "where  have  they  all 
gone?" 

1  From  ''For  the  Children's  Hour."  By  permission  of  Milton  Bradley  Co., 
Springfield,  Mass. 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK  143 

Then  he  heard  a  rustling  all  through  the 
dry  leaves  on  the  tree. 

"I  haven't  an  apple  left,  my  dear.  You'll 
have  to  wait  till  another  year." 

Bobby  was  surprised.  "But  where  have 
they  all  gone?"  he  asked  again.  The  apple 
tree  only  sighed.  So  the  little  boy  turned 
away  and  started  home  across  the  fields. 

Pretty  soon  he  met  a  pussy  cat.  "Oh, 
Pussy,"  he  said,  "do  you  know  what  they 
have  done  with  the  big  red  apples?" 

Pussy  looked  up  at  him  and  then  began 
rubbing  against  his  legs,  saying:  "Mew, 
mew,  me-ew!  I  haven't  a  big  red  apple  for 
you." 

So  Bobby  went  on,  and  at  last  he  met  a 
friendly  dog.  The  dog  stopped  and  wagged 
his  tail,  so  the  little  boy  said  to  him: 

"Oh,  Doggie,  can  you  tell  me  what  they 
have  done  with  the  big  red  apples?" 

The  doggie  kept  on  wagging  his  tail,  and 
barked. 

"Bow,  wow,  wow!  If  I  knew,  I'd  surely 
tell  you  now." 

So  the  little  boy  went  on  until  he  came  to 
a  kind  old  cow  looking  over  the  fence. 


144        THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

"Oh,  Mooey  Cow,"  said  Bobby,  "will  you 
tell  me  what  has  become  of  the  big  red 
apples?" 

Mooey  cow  rubbed  her  nose  against  him, 
and  said: 

"Moo!  moo-oo!  I'd  like  a  big  red  apple 
too." 

The  little  boy  laughed,  and  he  walked  on 
till  he  came  to  the  edge  of  the  wood,  and 
there  was  a  big,  gray  squirrel. 

"Hello,  Gray  Squirrel,"  said  Bobby,  "can 
you  tell  me  what  has  become  of  the  big  red 
apples?" 

The  squirrel  whisked  about  and  looked  at 
Bobby. 

1 '  The  farmer  has  hidden  them  all  away,  to 
eat  on  a  pleasant  winter's  day, "  he  chattered. 

Then  the  squirrel  ran  to  the  foot  of  a  chest- 
nut tree  and  began  to  fill  his  little  pockets 
with  shiny  nuts  to  carry  to  his  own  store- 
house, but  Bobby  said,  "Oh,  thank  you," 
and  ran  up  the  hill  to  the  farmer's  house  as 
fast  as  he  could  go. 

The  farmer  was  standing  in  the  door,  and 
he  smiled  when  he  saw  Bobby. 

"Good  morning,  good  morning,  my  little 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK  145 

man, "  he  said,  "and  what  can  I  do  for  you?" 

"Please,"  said  Bobby,  "I  want  a  big  red 
apple." 

The  farmer  laughed. 

"Come  with  me,"  he  said,  "and  you  shall 
pick  one  out  for  yourself. " 

So  Bobby  and  the  farmer  walked  out  to  the 
great  barn,  and  there  Bobby  saw  a  lot  of 
barrels  standing  in  a  row,  and  every  barrel 
was  full  of  big  red  apples. 

"Oh,  what  a  lot ! "  said  Bobby.  "Why  did 
you  pick  them  all?" 

"We  didn't  want  to  leave  them  for  Jack 
Frost,  did  we?"  said  the  farmer. 

"Does  Jack  Frost  like  apples?"  asked 
Bobby. 

"He  likes  to  pinch  them,"  said  the  farmer, 
"but  we  like  to  eat  them;  so  we  gather  them 
up  for  winter." 

Bobby  began  to  look  about  the  barn.  Near 
the  barrels  of  red  apples  was  another  row  of 
barrels  all  filled  with  green  apples,  and  farther 
on  was  a  great  pile  of  golden  pumpkins,  and 
near  that  was  a  heap  of  green  and  yellow 
squashes,  and  another  of  turnips,  and  then 
piles  of  yellow  corn. 


146        THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

"Are  you  keeping  all  these  things  for  win- 
ter?" asked  Bobby. 

"Yes,"  said  the  farmer,  "we've  been 
gathering  in  the  harvest,  all  good  things 
that  the  summer  has  given  us." 

"And  do  the  squirrels  gather  in  a  harvest, 
too?"  asked  Bobby. 

"I  reckon  they  do,"  said  the  farmer. 

"Then  that  was  how  he  knew,"  said 
Bobby. 

Soon  the  little  boy's  eyes  began  to  shine. 
"Won't  you  have  lots  of  good  things  for 
Thanksgiving! "  he  said.  "Pumpkin  pie,  and 
apple  pie,  and  everything!" 

"Well,"  said  the  farmer,  "I  guess  there 
is  plenty  to  be  thankful  for  right  here.  Did 
you  say  you  wanted  a  red  apple,  sonny?" 

Bobby  walked  up  to  the  barrel  and  picked 
out  the  biggest  red  apple  he  could  find. 

"Thank  you,  Mr.  Farmer,"  he  said.  And 
then  he  ran  home  to  give  the  apple  to  his 
grandpa. 

"Why,  why!"  said  grandpa,  "wherever 
did  you  find  it?" 

"Oh,"  said  Bobby,  "I  went  to  the  apple 
tree,  but  it  didn't  have  any.     Then  I  asked 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOR  147 

the  cat  where  the  biggest  red  apples  were, 
but  she  didn't  know.  I  asked  the  dog,  and 
he  didn't  know;  and  then  I  asked  the  cow, 
and  she  didn't  know;  but  then  I  asked  the 
squirrel,  and  he  knew,  because  he  gathers  a 
harvest  himself.  So  he  told  me  to  go  to  the 
farmer.  And  I  went  to  the  farmer  and  asked 
him  for  a  big  red  apple,  and  he  gave  me  this 
great  big  one!" 

"Well,  well,"  said  grandpa,  when  Bobby- 
stopped  out  of  breath.  "Now  find  me  a  bit 
of  string." 

Bobby  found  the  string,  and  grandpa  tied 
one  end  of  it  to  the  stem  of  the  apple.  He 
fastened  the  other  end  of  the  string  to  the 
mantel  shelf,  and  there  the  apple  hung  over 
the  fire. 

It  turned  and  twisted,  and  twisted  and 
turned,  while  grandpa  and  Bobby  watched 
it;  and  the  juice  sizzled  out,  and  the  apple 
grew  softer  and  softer,  and,  by  and  by,  it 
was  all  roasted. 

Then  Bobby  fetched  a  plate  and  two  spoons, 
and  he  and  grandpa  sat  before  the  fire  and 
ate  the  big  red  apple. 

Kate  Whiting  Patch. 


[48  Till';  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 


BLUNDER 


Blunder  was  going  to  the  Wishing-Cate, 
to  wish  for  a  pair  of  Shetland  ponies,  and  a 
little  coach,  like  Tom  Thumb's. 

And  of  course  you  can  have  your  wish, 
if  you  once  get  there.  But  the  thing  is,  to 
find  it;  for  it  is  not,  as  you  imagine,  a  great 
gate,  with  a  tall  marble  pillar  on  each  side, 
and  a  sign  over  the  top,  like  this,  Wishing- 
Gate, — but  just  an  old  stile,  made  of  three 
sticks. 

Put  up  two  fingers,  cross  them  on  the  top 
with  another  finger,  and  you  have  it  exactly, 
— the  way  it  looks,  I  mean, — a  worm- 
eaten  stile,  in  a  meadow;  and  as  there  are 
plenty  of  old  stiles  in  meadows,  how  are  you 
to  know  which  is  the  one? 

Blunder's  fairy  godmother  knew,  but  then 
she  could  not  tell  him,  for  that  was  not 
according  to  fairy  rules  and  regulations. 
She  could  only  direct  him  to  follow  the  road, 
and  ask  the  way  of  the  first  owl  he  met ;  and 
over  and  over  she  charged  him,  for  Blunder 
was  a  very  careless  little  boy,  and  seldom 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK  149 

found  anything,  "Be  sure  you  don't  miss 
him, — be  sure  you  don't  pass  him  by." 

And  so  far  Blunder  had  come  on  very  well, 
for  the  road  was  straight;  but  at  the  turn 
it  forked.  Should  he  go  through  the  wood, 
or  turn  to  the  right? 

There  was  an  owl  nodding  in  a  tall  oak 
tree,  the  first  owl  Blunder  had  seen;  but 
he  was  a  little  afraid  to  wake  him  up,  for 
Blunder's  fairy  godmother  had  told  him 
that  this  was  a  great  philosopher,  who  sat 
up  all  night  to  study  the  habits  of  frogs  and 
mice,  and  knew  everything  but  what  went 
on  in  the  daylight,  under  his  nose;  and  he 
could  think  of  nothing  better  to  say  to  this 
great  philosopher  than: 

"Good  Mr.  Owl,  will  you  please  show  me 
the  way  to  the  Wishing- Gate?" 

"Eh!  what's  that?"  cried  the  owl,  starting 
out  of  his  nap.  "Have  you  brought  me 
a  frog?" 

"No,"  said  Blunder,  "I  did  not  know  that 
you  would  like  one.  Can  you  tell  me  the 
way  to  the  Wishing-Gate?" 

1 '  Wishing-Gate !  Wishing-Gate ! ' '  hooted 
the    owl,    very   angry.     "Winks    and   naps! 


l5o  THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

how  dare  you  disturb  me  for  such  a  thing 
as  that?  Do  you  take  me  for  a  milestone? 
Follow  your  nose,  sir,  follow  your  nose!"  — 
and,  ruffling  up  his  feathers,  the  owl  was 
asleep  again  in  a  moment. 

But  how  could  Blunder  follow  his  nose? 
His  nose  would  turn  to  the  right,  or  take 
him  through  the  woods,  whichever  wTay  his 
legs  went,  "and  what  was  the  use  of  asking 
the  owl,"  thought  Blunder,  "if  this  was 
all?"  While  he  hesitated,  a  chipmunk  came 
scurrying  down  the  path,  and,  seeing  Blunder, 
stopped  short  with  a  little  squeak. 

"Good  Mrs.  Chipmunk,"  said  Blunder, 
"can  you  tell  me  the  way  to  the  Wishing- 
Gate?" 

"I  can't,  indeed,"  answered  the  chipmunk, 
politely.  "What  with  getting  in  nuts,  and 
the  care  of  a  young  family,  I  have  so  little 
time  to  visit  anything!  But  if  you  will 
follow  the  brook,  you  will  find  an  old  water 
sprite  under  a  slanting  stone,  over  which 
the  water  pours  all  day  with  a  noise  like 
wabble!  wabble!  who,  I  have  no  doubt, 
can  tell  you  all  about  it.  You  will  know 
him,  for  he  does  nothing  but  grumble  about 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK  151 

the  good  old  times  when  a  brook  would 
have  dried  up  before  it  would  have  turned 
a  mill  wheel." 

So  Blunder  went  on  up  the  brook,  and, 
seeing  nothing  of  the  water  sprite,  or  the 
slanting  stone,  was  just  saying  to  himself, 
"I  am  sure  I  don't  know  where  he  is, — I 
can't  find  it,"  when  he  spied  a  frog  sitting 
on  a  wet  stone. 

"Mr.  Frog,"  asked  Blunder,  "can  you 
tell  me  the  way  to  the  Wishing- Gate?" 

"I  cannot,"  said  the  frog.  "I  am  very 
sorry,  but  the  fact  is,  I  am  an  artist.  Young 
as  I  am,  my  voice  is  already  remarked  at 
our  concerts,  and  I  devote  myself  so  entirely 
to  my  profession  of  music,  that  I  have  no 
time  to  acquire  general  information.  But 
in  a  pine  tree  beyond,  you  will  find  an  old 
crow,  who,  I  am  quite  sure,  can  show  you 
the  way,  as  he  is  a  traveler,  and  a  bird  of 
an  inquiring  turn  of  mind." 

"I  don't  know  where  the  pine  is, — I  am 
sure  I  can  never  find  him,"  answered  Blunder, 
discontentedly;  but  still  he  went  on  up 
the  brook,  till,  hot  and  tired,  and  out  of 
patience  at  seeing  neither  crow  nor  pine,  he 


152        THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

sat  down  under  a  great  tree  to  rest.  There 
he  heard  tiny  voices  squabbling. 

"Get  out!  Go  away,  I  tell  you!  It  has 
been  knock!  knock!  knock!  at  my  door  all 
day,  till  I  am  tired  out.  First  a  wasp,  and 
then  a  bee,  and  then  another  wasp,  and  then 
another  bee,  and  now  you.  Go  away!  I 
won't  let  another  one  in  to-day." 

*  'But  I  want  my  honey." 

"And  I  want  my  nap." 

"I  will  come  in." 

"You  shall  not." 

"You  are  a  miserly  old  elf." 

"And  you  are  a  brute  of  a  bee." 

And  looking  about  him,  Blunder  spied  a 
bee,  quarreling  with  a  morning-glory  elf, 
who  was  shutting  up  the  morning-glory  in 
his  face. 

"Elf,  do  you  know  which  is  the  way  to 
the  Wishing-Gate?"  asked  Blunder. 

"No,"  said  the  elf,  "I  don't  know  any- 
thing about  geography.  I  was  always  too 
delicate  to  study.  But  if  you  will  keep  on 
in  this  path,  you  will  meet  the  Dream-man, 
coming  down  from  fairyland,  with  his  bags  of 
dreams  on  his  shoulder;  and  if  anybody  can 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK  153 

tell  you   about  the  Wishing- Gate,  he  can." 

"But  how  can  I  find  him?"  asked  Blunder, 
more  and  more  impatient. 

"I  don't  know,  I  am  sure,"  answered  the 
elf,  "unless  you  should  look  for  him." 

So  there  was  no  help  for  it  but  to  go  on; 
and  presently  Blunder  passed  the  Dream- 
man,  asleep  under  a  witch-hazel,  with  his 
bags  of  good  and  bad  dreams  laid  over  him 
to  keep  him  from  fluttering  away. 

But  Blunder  had  a  habit  of  not  using  his 
eyes;  for  at  home,  when  told  to  find  any- 
thing, he  always  said,  "I  don't  know  where 
it  is,"  or,  "I  can't  find  it,"  and  then  his 
mother  or  sister  went  straight  and  found  it 
for  him.  So  he  passed  the  Dream-man 
without  seeing  him,  and  went  on  till  he 
stumbled  on  Jack-o' Lantern. 

' '  Can  you  show  me  the  way  to  the  Wishing- 
Gate?"  said  Blunder. 

"Certainly,  with  pleasure,"  answered  Jack, 
and,  catching  up  his  lantern,  set  out  at  once. 

Blunder  followed  close,  but,  in  watching 
the  lantern,  he  forgot  to  look  to  his  feet, 
and  fell  into  a  hole  filled  with  black  mud. 

"T  say!    the    Wishing-Gate   is   not   down 


154        THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

there,"  called  out  Jack,  whisking  off  among 
the  tree  tops. 

"But  I  can't  come  up  there,"  whimpered 
Blunder. 

"That  is  not  my  fault,  then,"  answered 
Jack,  merrily,  dancing  out  of  sight. 

Oh,  a  very  angry  little  boy  was  Blunder, 
when  he  clambered  out  of  the  hole.  "  I  don't 
know  where  it  is,"  he  said,  crying;  "I  can't 
find  it,  and  I'll  go  straight  home." 

Just  then  he  stepped  on  an  old,  moss- 
grown,  rotten  stump;  and  it  happening,  un- 
luckily, that  this  rotten  stump  was  a  wcod 
goblin's  chimney,  Blunder  fell  through,  head- 
long, in  among  the  pots  and  pans,  in  which  the 
goblin's  cook  was  cooking  the  goblin's  supper. 

II 

The  old  goblin,  who  was  asleep  upstairs, 
started  up  in  a  fright  at  the  tremendous 
clash  and  clatter,  and  finding  that  his  house 
was  not  tumbling  about  his  ears,  as  he  thought 
at  first,  stumped  down  to  the  kitchen  to  see 
what  was  the  matter.  The  cook  heard  him 
coming,  and  looked  about  her  in  a  fright  to 
hide  Blunder. 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK  155 

1 '  Quick ! ' '  cried  she.  ' '  If  my  master  catches 
you,  he  will  have  you  in  a  pie.  In  the  next 
room  stands  a  pair  of  shoes.  Jump  into 
them,  and  they  will  take  you  up  the  chimney." 

Off  flew  Blunder,  burst  open  the  door, 
and  tore  frantically  about  the  room,  in  one 
corner  of  which  stood  the  shoes;  but  of 
course  he  could  not  see  them,  because  he  was 
not  in  the  habit  of  using  his  eyes.  "I  can't 
find  them!  Oh,  I  can't  find  them!"  sobbed 
poor  little  Blunder,  running  back  to  the 
cook. 

"Run  into  the  closet,"  said  the  cook. 

Blunder  made  a  dash  at  the  window,  but — 
"I  don't  know  where  it  is,"  he  called  out. 

Clump!  clump!  That  was  the  goblin,  half- 
way down  the  stairs. 

' '  Goodness  gracious  mercy  me ! ' '  exclaimed 
cook.  "He  is  coming.  The  boy  will  be 
eaten,  in  spite  of  me.  Jump  into  the  meal 
chest." 

"I  don't  see  it,"  squeaked  Blunder,  rush- 
ing toward  the  fireplace.     "Where  is  it?" 

Clump!  clump!  That  was  the  goblin  at 
the  foot  of  the  stairs,  and  coming  toward 
the  kitchen  door. 


156        THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

"There  is  an  invisible  cloak  hanging  on 
that  peg.  Get  into  that,"  cried  cook,  quite 
beside  herself. 

But  Blunder  could  no  more  see  the  cloak 
than  he  could  see  the  shoes,  the  closet,  and 
the  meal  chest;  and  no  doubt  the  goblin, 
whose  hand  was  on  the  latch,  would  have 
found  him  prancing  around  the  kitchen, 
and  crying  out,  "I  can't  find  it,"  but,  for- 
tunately for  himself,  Blunder  caught  his  foot 
in  the  invisible  cloak,  and  tumbled  down, 
pulling  the  cloak  over  him.  There  he  lay, 
hardly  daring  to  breathe. 

"What  was  all  that  noise  about?"  asked 
the  goblin,  gruffly,  coming  into  the  kitchen. 

"Only  my  pans,  master,"  answered  the 
cook;  and  as  he  could  see  nothing  amiss,  the 
old  goblin  went  grumbling  upstairs  again, 
while  the  shoes  took  Blunder  up  the  chimney, 
and  landed  him  in  a  meadow,  safe  enough,  but 
so  miserable!  He  was  cross,  he  was  disap- 
pointed, he  was  hungry. 

It  was  dark,  he  did  not  know  the  way 
home,  and,  seeing  an  old  stile,  he  climbed 
up,  and  sat  down  on  the  top  of  it,  for  he 
was  too  tired  to  stir.     Just  then  came  along 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK  157 

the  South  Wind,  with  his  pockets  crammed 
full  of  showers,  and,  as  he  happened  to  be 
going  Blunder's  way,  he  took  Blunder  home; 
of  which  the  boy  was  glad  enough,  only  he 
would  have  liked  it  better  if  the  Wind  had 
not  laughed  all  the  way.  For  what  would 
you  think,  if  you  were  wralking  along  a  road 
with  a  fat  old  gentleman,  who  went  chuckling 
to  himself,  and  slapping  his  knees,  and  poking 
himself,  till  he  was  purple  in  the  face,  when 
he  would  burst  out  in  a  great  windy  roar  of 
laughter  every  other  minute? 

"What  are  you  laughing  at?"  asked  Blun- 
der, at  last. 

"At  two  things  that  I  saw  in  my  travels," 
answered  the  Wind;  "a  hen,  that  died  of 
starvation,  sitting  on  an  empty  peck  measure 
that  stood  in  front  of  a  bushel  of  grain; 
and  a  little  boy  who  sat  on  the  top  of  the 
Wishing-Gate,  and  came  home  because  he 
could  not  find  it." 

"What?  what's  that?"  cried  Blunder;  but 
just  then  he  found  himself  at  home.  There 
sat  his  fairy  godmother  by  the  fire,  her 
mouse-skin  cloak  hung  up  on  a  peg,  and  toe- 
ing off  a  spider' s-silk  stocking  an  eighth  of  an 


158  THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 


inch  long;  and  though  everybody  else  cried, 
"What  luck?"  and  "Where  is  the  Wishing- 
Gate?"  she  sat  mum. 

"I  don't  know  where  it  is,"  answered 
Blunder.  '  I  could  n't  find  it" ; — and  thereon 
he  told  the  story  of  his  troubles. 

"Poor  boy!"  said  his  mother,  kissing  him, 
while  his  sister  ran  to  bring  him  some  bread 
and  milk. 

"Yes,  that  is  all  very  fine,"  cried  his 
godmother,  pulling  out  her  needles,  and  rolling 
up  her  ball  of  silk;  "but  now  hear  my  story. 

"There  was  once  a  little  boy  who  must 
needs  go  to  the  Wishing-Gate,  and  his 
fairy  godmother  showed  him  the  road  as  far 
as  the  turn,  and  told  him  to  ask  the  first  owl 
he  met  what  to  do  then. 

"But  this  little  boy  seldom  used  his  eyes, 
so  he  passed  the  first  owl,  and  waked  up  the 
wrong  owl;  so  he  passed  the  water  sprite, 
and  found  only  a  frog;  so  he  sat  down  under 
the  pine  tree,  and  never  saw  the  crow;  so 
he  passed  the  Dream-man,  and  ran  after 
Jack-o' Lantern;  so  he  tumbled  down  the  gob- 
lin's chimney,  and  could  n't  find  the  shoes 
and  the  closet  and  the  chest  and  the  cloak; 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK  159 

and  so  he  sat  on  the  top  of  the  Wishing-Gate 

till  the  South  Wind  brought  him  home,  and 

never  knew  it.    Ugh!   Bah!"   And  away  went 

the  fairy  godmother  up  the  chimney,  in  such 

deep  disgust  that  she  did  not  even  stop  for 

her  mouse-skin  cloak. 

Louise  E.  Chollet. 

A   FAIRY   IN   ARMOR 
He  put  his  acorn  helmet  on; 
It  was  plumed  of  the  silk  of  the  thistle  down ; 
The  corselet  plate  that  guarded  his  breast 
Was  once  the  wild  bee's  golden  vest; 
His  cloak,  of  a  thousand  mingled  dyes, 
Was  formed  of  the  wings  of  butterflies; 
His  shield  was  the  shell  of  a  lady-bug  green, 
Studs  of  gold  on  a  ground  of  green; 
And  the  quivering  lance  which  he  brandished 

bright 
Was  the  sting  of  a  wasp  he  had  slain  in  fight. 
Swift  he  bestrode  his  firefly  steed ; 
He  bared  his  blade  of  the  bent-grass  blue ; 
He  drove  his  spurs  of  the  cockle-seed, 
And  away  like  a  glance  of  thought  he  flew, 
To  skim  the  heavens,  and  follow  far 
The  fiery  trail  of  the  rocket-star. 

Joseph  Rodman  Drake. 


1 60        THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

THE  MAGPIE'S  NEST1 

Once  upon  a  time,  when  pigs  spoke  rhyme, 
And  monkeys  chewed  tobacco, 
And  hens  took  snuff  to  make  them  tough, 
And  ducks  went  quack,  quack,  quack,  O! 

All  the  birdsof  the  air~came  to  the  magpie 
and  asked  her  to  teach  them  how  to  build 
nests.  For  the  magpie  is  the  cleverest  bird 
of  all  at  building  nests.  So  she  put  all  the 
birds  round  her  and  began  to  show  them  how 
to  do  it.  First  of  all  she  took  some  mud  and 
made  a  sort  of  round  cake  with  it. 
•  "Oh,  that's  how  it's  done, "  said  the  thrush ; 
and  away  it  flew,  and  so  that's  how  thrushes 
build  their  nests. 

Then  the  magpie  took  some  twigs  and 
arranged  them  round  in  the  mud. 

"Now  I  know  all  about  it,"  said  the  black- 
bird, and  off  he  flew,  and  that's  how  the 
blackbirds  make  their  nests  to  this  very  day. 

Then  the  magpie  put  another  layer  of  mud 
over  the  twigs. 

"Oh,  that's  quite  obvious, M  said  the  wise 
owl,  and  away  it  flew;  and  owls  have  never 
made  better  nests  since. 

1  From  "English  Fairy  Tales."      By  permission  of  the  publishers,  G.  P. 
Putnam's  Sons,  New  York  and  London. 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK  161 

After  this  the  magpie  took  some  twigs  and 
twined  them  round  the  outside. 

"The  very  thing!"  said  the  sparrow,  and 
off  he  went ;  so  sparrows  make  rather  slovenly 
nests  to  this  day. 

Then  Madge  Magpie  took  some  feathers  and 
stuff,  and  lined  the  nest  very  comfortably. 

"That  suits  me,"  cried  the  starling,  and 
off  it  flew;  and  very  comfortable  nests  have 
starlings. 

So  it  went  on,  every  bird  taking  away  some 
knowledge  of  how  to  build  nests,  but  none  of 
them  waiting  to  the  end.  Meanwhile  Madge 
Magpie  went  on  working  and  working  with- 
out looking  up  till  the  only  bird  that  remained 
was  the  turtle-dove,  and  that  hadn't  paid 
any  attention  all  along,  but  only  kept  on 
saying  its  silly  cry:  "Take  two,  Taffy, 
take  two-o-o-o. " 

At  last  the  magpie  heard  this  just  as  she 
was  putting  a  twig  across.  So  she  said: 
"One's  enough." 

But  the  turtle-dove  kept  on  saying :  ' '  Take 
two,  Taffy,  take  two-o-o. " 

Then  the  magpie  got  angry  and  said: 
"One's  enough,  I  tell  you." 


1 62  THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

Still  the  turtle-dove  cried:  "Take  two, 
Taffy,  take  two-o-o. " 

At  last,  and  at  last,  the  magpie  looked  up 
and  saw  nobody  near  her  but  the  silly  turtle- 
dove, and  then  she  got  rarely  angry  and  flew 
away,  and  refused  to  tell  the  birds  how  to 
build  nests  again.  And  that  is  why  different 
birds  build  their  nests  differently. 

Joseph  Jacobs. 

THE  HOP- ABOUT  MAN1 

Wee-Wun  was  a  little  gnome  who  lived 
in  the  Bye-bye  Meadow,  in  a  fine  new  house 
which  he  loved.  To  live  in  the  Bye-bye 
Meadow  was  sometimes  a  dangerous  thing, 
for  all  the  big  people  lived  there.  Wee-Wun 
might  have  lived  on  the  other  common  with 
the  other  gnomes  and  fairies  if  he  had  liked; 
but  he  did  not.  He  liked  better  to  be  among 
the  big  people  on  the  Bye-bye  Meadow. 
And  perhaps  if  he  had  not  been  such  a  care- 
less fellow  he  might  not  have  got  into  so 
much  trouble  there;  but  he  was  as  careless 
as  he  could  be. 

One  day  Wee-Wun  was  flying  across  the 

1  From  "Little  Folks'  Magazine,"    By  permission  ofCassell  6*  Co.,  publishers. 
10 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK  163 

Bye-bye  Meadow,  with  his  cap  at  the  back 
of  his  head,  and  his  pockets  full  of  blue 
blow-away  seeds,  when  he  saw  lying  upon 
the  ground  two  little  shoes  of  blue  and  silver, 
with  upturned  toes. 

"Here  is  a  find!"  cried  he,  and  he  bent 
down  over  the  little  shoes  with  round  eyes. 

There  they  were,  and  they  said  nothing 
about  how  they  had  come  there,  but  lay 
sadly  on  their  sides,  as  silent  as  could  be. 

"I  shall  certainly  take  them  home  to  my 
fine  house,"  said  Wee-Wun  the  gnome,  "for 
they  must  be  lonely  lying  here.  They  shall 
stand  upon  my  mantel  shelf,  and  every 
morning  I  shall  say,  'Good  morning,  little 
blue  shoes/  and  every  night  I  shall  say, 
'Good  night/  and  we  shall  all  be  as  happy 
as  can  be." 

So  he  went  to  put  the  little  shoes  into  his 
pockets,  but  he  found  they  were  already  full 
of  blue  blow-away  seeds. 

Then  Wee-Wun  took  the  blue  blow-away 
seeds,  and  cast  them  over  the  wall  into  the 
Stir-about  Wife's  garden.  And  he  put  the 
little  shoes  into  his  pocket,  and  flew  away. 

The  garden  of  the  Stir-about  Wife  is  full 


i64        THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

of  golden  dandelions.  That  is  because  the 
Stir-about  Wife  likes  best  to  brew  golden 
spells  that  will  make  folk  happy,  and  of 
course  dandelions  are  the  flowers  you  use 
for  golden  spells. 

But  the  very  next  day  after  Wee-Wun  had 
passed,  when  she  came  into  her  garden  to 
gather  every  twentieth  dandelion  she  could 
hardly  see  a  dandelion  because  of  the  blow- 
aways  that  were  growing  everywhere,  and 
casting  their  fluff  into  the  dandelions'  eyes. 

When  the  Stir-about  Wife  saw  this  mournful 
sight  she  wept,  because  her  beautiful  spell, 
which  she  was  about  to  finish,  was  quite 
spoiled.  And  after  a  little  while  she  went 
into  her  house  and  made  another  spell  in- 
stead. 

On  the  morrow  Wee-Wun  the  gnome  came 
flying  over  the  Bye-bye  Meadow,  just  as 
careless  as  ever.  He  stopped  for  a  moment 
by  the  Stir-about  Wife's  garden  to  look  at 
the  spot  where  he  had  found  the  little  blue 
shoes,  to  see  if  there  were  another  pair  there. 
And  after  he  had  seen  that  no  one  had  dropped 
another  pair  of  little  blue  shoes,  he  hung 
over  the  Stir-about  Wife's  wall  and  looked  at 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK  165 

her  garden,  and  when  he  saw  the  blue 
blow-aways  he  laughed  so  that  he  fell  upon 
the  ground. 

"That  is  a  new  kind  of  dandelion,"  said  he, 
and  he  picked  himself  up,  laughing  still. 
Then  he  saw  that  upon  the  ground  where 
he  had  fallen  there  lay  a  large  seed  that  shone 
in  the  sun.  It  was  as  blue  as  the  little  blue 
shoes,  and  Wee-Wun  had  never  seen  any 
seed  like  it  before.  He  took  it  in  his  hand, 
and  how  it  twinkled  and  shone! 

"I  shall  plant  this  in  my  garden,"  said 
Wee-Wun,  "and  I  shall  have  a  plant  which 
will  have  sunbeams  for  flowers." 

So  he  dropped  it  into  his  pocket  and  flew 
away  home.  That  evening  he  made  a  little 
hole,  and  when  he  had  dropped  the  blue  seed 
into  it  he  patted  the  earth  down. 

"Grow  quickly,  little  seed,"  said  he.  Then 
he  thought  of  the  Stir-about  Wife's  garden, 
and  he  began  to  laugh,  and  he  laughed  now 
and  again  the  whole  night  through. 

But  when  he  awakened  in  the  morning, 
alack!  he  laughed  no  more,  for  his  fine  home 
was  so  dark  that  he  could  see  not  a  pace  in 
front  of  him. 


166        THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

"This  is  very  odd,  very  odd,  indeed!" 
said  Wee-Wun  the  gnome,  and  he  rubbed  his 
eyes  very  hard.  But  this  was  no  dream, 
and  no  matter  how  hard  he  rubbed,  he  could 
not  rub  it  away.  Then  he  heard  upon  the 
floor  a  clatter  and  a  rustle,  and  then  a  stepping 
noise, — one,  two;  one,  two — and  that  was 
the  little  blue  shoes  that  were  marching 
round  and  round  over  the  floor  very  steadily. 

And  as  they  marched  they  sang  this  song: 

4 '  Ring-a-ding-dill ,  r ing-a-ding-dill , 
The  Hop-about  Man  comes  over  the  hill. 
Why  is  he  coming,  and  what  will  he  see? 
Rickety,  rackety, — one,  two,  three." 

And  they  sang  it  over  and  over  again. 

44  Well,  this  is  a  fine  time  to  sing,  when  it 
is  as  dark  as  can  be!"  cried  Wee-Wun. 
But  the  little  shoes  took  no  notice  at  all. 

So  Wee-Wun  went  outside  to  his  garden, 
and  then  he  saw  that  the  whole  world  was 
not  dark,  as  he  had  supposed,  but  only  his 
little  home.  For  in  the  spot  where  he  had 
sown  the  blue  seed  had  sprung  up  a  huge 
plant  which  covered  over  the  window  of 
Wee-Wun's  fine  house,  and  reached  far 
above  its  roof. 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK  167 

Wee-Wun  began  to  weep,  for  he  did  not 
see  why  this  thing  had  come  to  him.  And 
after  he  had  wept  awhile  he  went  close  to  the 
fearful  plant  and  walked  round  it,  and  looked 
up  and  down. 

And  then  he  said,  "Why,  it  is  a  blue 
blow-away!"  And  so  it  was,  but  far,  far 
larger  than  any  Wee-Wun  had  ever  seen  in 
his  life  before.  And  it  had  grown  so  high 
and  as  big  as  that  in  just  one  night. 

"What  will  it  be  like  to-morrow?' '  thought 
Wee-Wun,  and  he  began  to  weep  again. 
But  the  blue  blow-away  took  no  notice  of  his 
tears,  and  the  little  shoes  inside  the  house 
went  on  singing;  so  Wee-Wun  had  to  stir 
his  wits,  and  consider  what  was  to  be  done. 
And  when  he  had  considered  awhile,  he  set 
off  for  the  house  of  the  Green  Ogre,  and  he 
was  shaking  in  his  shoes. 

The  Green  Ogre  was  planting  peas,  one  by 
one.  When  he  saw  Wee-Wun  come  along, 
with  tears  still  on  his  cheeks  and  shaking  in 
his  shoes,  he  said: 

"  My  little  gnome,  you  had  better  keep  away, 
lest  I  plant  you  in  mistake  for  a  pea." 

But  Wee-Wun  said: 


1 68        THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

"Oh,  dear  Green  Ogre,  wouldn't  you  like 
a  nice  blue  blow-away  for  your  garden? 
I  have  one  which  is  quite  big  enough  for  you; 
it  is  taller  than  my  little  house.  You  have 
never  seen  a  blow-away  so  fine." 

"And  are  you  weeping,  my  Wee-Wun, 
because  you  have  such  a  fine  blue  blow- 
away?"  asked  the  Green  Ogre,  and  he  began 
to  laugh. 

But  Wee-Wun  said: 

"I  am  weeping  to  see  such  a  fine  garden 
as  yours  without  a  blue  blow-away  in  it. 
That  is  a  sad  sight." 

"There  is  something  in  that,"  said  the 
Green  Ogre,  and  he  set  down  his  peas,  and 
thought.  Then  he  said:  "Very  well,  I  will 
come  and  look  at  your  blue  blow-away." 
And  he  set  off  at  once. 

Now  when  the  Green  Ogre  saw  the  blue 
blow-away  in  Wee-Wun's  garden  he  thought 
it  was  certainly  the  best  he  had  ever  seen, 
and  much  too  fine  for  a  little  gnome  like 
Wee-Wun.  So  he  dug  it  up  in  a  great  hurry 
and  carried  it  away. 

"There,  that  was  managed  very  easily," 
said  Wee-Wun  the  gnome  joyously  to  himself, 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK  169 

and  he  looked  at  the  hole  where  the  blue 
blow-away  had  been,  and  laughed.  Then 
he  went  into  his  fine  home,  but  that  was  no 
longer  empty,  for  in  the  seat  by  the  fireside 
sat  a  little  man  in  a  blue  smock  and  feather 
cap.  And  he  looked  quite  happy  and  at  home. 
And  above  his  head  on  the  mantle  shelf 
were  the  little  blue  shoes,  as  quiet  as  could 
be. 

"This  is  a'  nice  thing/'  said  Wee-Wun, 
opening  his  eyes  wide.  "Who  are  you  that 
you  have  come  into  my  little  house  where 
I  like  to  sit  all  alone?" 

And  the  little  man  replied  at  once: 

"I  am  the  Hop-about  Man,  and  since  you 
have  let  the  Green  Ogre  carry  away  the  blue 
blow-away  in  which  I  lived,  I  have  come  to 
live  with  you." 

"But  my  fine  house  is  not  big  enough  to 
hold  two  people,"  cried  Wee-Wun,  and  he 
was  in  a  way. 

"It  is  big  enough  to  hold  twelve  tigers," 
said  the  Hop-about  Man,  "so  it  can  easily 
hold  two  little  gnomes.  As  for  me,  here  I  am, 
and  here  I  mean  to  stay." 

And    not    another    word    would    he    say. 


170        THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

At  this  Wee-Wun  was  in  a  terrible  way,  as 
you  may  think.  But  there  was  the  Hop- 
about  Man,  and  he  did  not  seem  to  care,  not 
one  bit. 

So  Wee-Wun  went  on  his  way,  and  when 
he  had  made  a  platter  of  porridge  for  his 
breakfast,  the  Hop-about  Man  said: 

"Ah,  that  is  my  breakfast,  I  see,11  and  he 
ate  it  up  in  a  twink.  So  Wee-Wun  had  to 
make  another  platterful,  and  alack,  he  was 
careless,  and  let  that  porridge  burn,  and  he 
could  not  eat  it,  though  he  tried  hard.  After- 
wards he  went  out  to  fetch  wood  for  his  fire, 
and  when  he  had  fetched  it,  he  threw  it  into 
a  corner,  and  he  left  the  door  wide  open,  so 
that  a  draught  fell  upon  the  Hop-about  Man. 
But  the  Hop-about  Man  said  nothing. 

Then  Wee-Wun  went  out  to  dig  in  his 
garden,  and  he  dug  there  the  whole  day  long, 
and  when  he  came  in  in  the  evening,  there 
was  the  Hop-about  Man  sitting  in  his  chair. 
When  Wee-Wun  looked  at  his  blue  smock 
and  his  feather  cap  he  saw  that  the  Hop-about 
Man  looked  just  like  a  blue  blow-away 
growing  in  the  chair  at  Wee-Wun' s  fireside. 
But  when  Wee-Wun  the  gnome  came  in  the 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 171 

Hop-about  Man  flew  out  of  his  chair,  and  he 
flew  all  around  the  room,  singing  this  song: 
' 'Ring-a-ding-dill,  ring-a-ding-dill, 
Let  all  careless  things  hop  about  if  they  will." 

Alack!  he  had  no  sooner  sung  this  song 
than  the  door  which  Wee-Wun  had  left 
open  jumped  off  its  hinges  and  ran  about  the 
floor,  and  the  wood  which  he  had  thrown 
into  the  corner  flew  out  and  rushed  about  too. 
The  Hop-about  Man's  platter,  which  Wee- 
Wun  had  forgotten  to  wash,  flew  up  to  the 
ceiling,  and  the  wooden  spoon  spun  round 
like  a  top  on  the  floor,  and  all  the  chairs  and 
tables  Wee-Wun  had  left  awry  began  to  dance. 

''Certainly  my  fine  house  will  come  down 
about  my  ears,"  cried  poor  Wee-Wun. 

Then  he  felt  a  tug  at  his  hair,  and  that 
was  his  cap,  which  he  had  put  on  inside  out, 
and  which  was  anxious  to  be  off  and  join  in 
the  fun.  And  his  spade,  which  he  had  left 
lying  on  the  ground  outside,  came  running 
in  at  the  place  where  the  door  had  been, 
stirring  everything  as  it  came.  That  was 
a  muddle,  and  Wee-Wun  began  to  weep. 

"Oh,  dear  Hop-about  Man,"  he  cried, 
"do  tell  everything  to  be  quiet  again,  please, 


172  THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

for  I  can  hear  the  walls  of  my  fine  house 
shaking!" 

But  the  Hop-about  Man,  who  was  again 
sitting  in  his  chair,  replied: 

"Things  will  be  quiet  again  when  you 
have  put  all  careless  things  straight.' ' 

So  Wee-Wun  set  to  work,  and  he  wept 
ever  so  fast.  You  see  it  is  difficult  to  put 
careless  things  straight  when  they  are  running 
about  all  the  time,  and  you  have  to  catch 
them  first.  But  at  last  Wee-Wun  set  the 
door  on  its  hinges,  and  put  the  wood  in  the 
wood  cellar,  and  washed  the  Hop-about 
Man's  platter  and  spoon,  and  set  straight 
all  the  chairs  and  tables,  and  put  the  spade 
in  the  place  where  it  ought  to  be,  and  he  was 
so  tired  then  he  could  hardly  move  another 
step.  But  the  Hop-about  Man  did  not 
notice  him  at  all,  and  when  Wee-Wun  cried 
out  to  the  little  blue  shoes: 

"See  how  hard  I  am  working,"  they  were 
quite  silent.  And  you  do  not  know  how 
silent  blue  shoes  can  be. 

The  Hop-about  Man  was  falling  asleep 
in  his  chair  when  all  was  finished,  and  Wee- 
Wun  again  shed  tears. 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK  173 

"Oh,  Hop-about  Man,"  he  cried,  "are  you 
never  going  away?" 

And  the  Hop-about  Man  replied: 

"Certainly  I  am  very  comfortable  here, 
with  half  of  this  fine  house  for  my  own,  and 
I  can  only  walk  away  if  I  have  a  pair  of 
little  blue  shoes  to  walk  in,  and  I  can  only 
go  when  you  have  set  all  careless  things 
straight." 

Poor  Wee-Wun!  He  took  the  little  blue 
shoes  in  a  hurry,  and  his  tears  were  dropping 
all  the  time. 

"Good-by,  little  blue  shoes,"  he  said, 
but  the  Hop-about  Man  did  not  seem  to 
notice.  And  when  Wee-Wun  gave  them  to 
him  he  put  them  upon  his  feet,  but  he  did 
not  stir,  not  an  inch. 

Then  Wee-Wun  sighed  a  long  sigh,  and  he 
flew  over  the  Bye-bye  Meadow  till  he  reached 
the  garden  of  the  Stir-about  Wife,  which  is 
bound  about  by  a  wall.  And  there  all  night 
he  weeded,  pulling  up  blue  blow-aways  by  the 
score.  But  when  in  the  morning  he  went 
back  to  his  fine  house,  the  Hop-about  Man 
was  gone. 

Agnes  Grazier  Herbertson. 


174  THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

THE   FOX  AND   THE   ROOSTER 

Such  a  noise  as  there  was  in  the  barnyard 
one  fine  morning!  Chanticleer,  the  old  yellow 
rooster,  crowed  cock-a-doodle-doo-oo-oo,  the 
hens  cackled,  and  the  ducks  went  quack, 
quack,  quack! 

A  sly  fox  living  in  the  woods  not  far  away 
heard  Chanticleer  crowing  cock-a-doodle-doo- 
oo-oo  so  loud  and  so  proud.  He  said  to  him- 
self, ' '  What  a  fine  breakfast  Chanticleer  would 
make.  I  '11  run  over  there  and  see  if  I  can't 
play  a  smart  trick  on  him  this  morning.' '  So 
he  crawled  into  the  barnyard  and  hid  in  the 
grass. 

By  and  by  Chanticleer  happened  to  look 
that  way  and  saw  the  sly  old  fox  hiding  in 
the  grass.  He  was  so  afraid  that  he  stopped 
crowing  and  started  to  run  away. 

"Don't  run  away,  Chanticleer.  Don't  be 
afraid  of  me.  I  came  into  the  barnyard  just 
to  hear  you  crow.  I  knew  your  father,  and 
he  could  crow,  cock-a-doodle-doo-oo-oo,  bet- 
ter than  any  rooster  I  ever  heard,  except  you. 
You  look  like  your  father,  Chanticleer.  You 
are  as  handsome  as  he  was,  and  your  voice 
is  just  as  loud  and  clear. 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK  175 

"When  your  father  crowed  cock-a-doodle- 
doo,  in  his  loudest,  sweetest  voice,  he  always 
stood  on  his  tiptoes,  stretched  his  neck,  and 
shut  his  eyes.  Do  you  stand  on  your  tip- 
toes and  shut  your  eyes  when  you  crow  your 
loudest  and  sweetest? 

"No  rooster  in  this  barnyard,  or  any  other, 
can  crow  as  beautifully  as  you,  Chanticleer. 
Let  me  hear  you  crow  now,  just  as  your 
father  did." 

"Well,  well,"  thought  Chanticleer,  "he's  a 
nice  old  fox.  I  like  him.  I  am  not  afraid 
of  him  at  all.  I'm  going  to  crow  my  very 
loudest  and  clearest,  and  see  what  he  will 
say." 

So  Chanticleer  stood  on  his  tiptoes, 
stretched  his  neck  just  as  long  as  he  could, 
shut  his  eyes,  and  said  "  Cock-a-doodle — " 
But  he  never  finished  that  crow — for  just  as 
soon  as  his  eyes  were  shut  the  fox  caught  him 
by  the  neck  and  ran  off  as  fast  as  he  could 
run. 

"Fox!  fox!  fox!"  cried  the  black  hens, 
the  white  hens,  and  the  ducks. 

"Fox!  fox!"  cried  the  farmer.  "Fox! 
fox!" 


176  THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

The  hens  cackled  and  cackled,  the  ducks 
quacked  and  quacked,  and  the  farmer's 
dog  barked  and  barked  as  they  all  ran  after 
the  fox. 

My,  such  a  noise  as  they  made !  But  the 
fox  kept  on  running. 

Chanticleer  was  so  afraid!  He  knew  the 
sly  old  fox  would  eat  him  for  his  breakfast 
in  about  a  minute  if  he  did  n't  think  of  some 
way  to  save  himself.  So  he  said,  "What  a 
noise  those  hens  and  ducks  are  making! 
They  can  never  catch  you.  They  need  n't 
try;  you  run  too  fast  for  them. 

"Why  don't  you  say,  'Go  back,  cackling 
hens!  Go  back,  quacking  ducks!  You  can't 
catch  me!  I  'm  going  to  eat  this  rooster  for 
my  breakfast,  and  you  can't  stop  me'?" 

The  fox  was  pleased  to  hear  Chanticleer 
say  this,  and  thought  it  would  be  fun  to 
laugh  at  the  hens  and  ducks.  So  he  called 
back  to  them,  "Go  back,  cackling  hens, 
quacking  ducks,  and  barking  dog!  You 
can't  catch  me!" 

And  the  very  minute  he  opened  his  mouth 
away  flew  the  old  yellow  rooster  into  a  tall 
tree. 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK  177 

Then  Mr.  Sly  Fox  saw  that  Chanticleer 
had  been  too  clever  for  him,  and  he  had  to 
go  hungry  all  day  long. 

TIT   FOR   TAT1 

There  once  lived  a  Camel  and  a  Jackal 
who  were  great  friends.  One  day  the  Jackal 
said  to  the  Camel,  "I  know  that  there  is  a 
fine  field  of  sugar  cane  on  the  other  side  of 
the  river.  If  you  will  take  me  across,  I  '11 
show  you  the  place.  This  plan  will  suit  me 
as  well  as  you.  You  will  enjoy  eating  the 
sugar  cane,  and  I  am  sure  to  find  many  crabs, 
bones,  and  bits  of  fish  by  the  river  side,  on 
which  to  make  a  good  dinner." 

The  Camel  consented,  and  swam  across 
the  river,  taking  the  Jackal,  who  could  not 
swim,  on  his  back.  When  they  reached  the 
other  side,  the  Camel  went  to  eat  the  sugar 
cane,  and  the  Jackal  ran  up  and  down  the 
river  bank,  devouring  all  the  crabs,  bits  of 
fish,  and  bones  he  could  find. 

But  being  so  much  smaller  an  animal,  he 
had  made  an  excellent  meal  before  the  Camel 

iFrom  "Old  Deccan  Days" 

12 


178  THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

had  eaten  more  than  two  or  three  mouth- 
fuls;  and  no  sooner  had  he  finished  his 
dinner  than  he  ran  round  and  round  the 
sugar-cane  field,  yelping  and  howling  with 
all   his   might. 

The  villagers  heard  him,  and  thought, 
"There  is  a  Jackal  among  the  sugar  canes; 
he  will  be  scratching  holes  in  the  ground,  and 
spoiling  the  roots  of  the  plants."  And  they 
went  down  to  the  place  to  drive  him  away. 
But  when  they  got  there  they  found  to  their 
surprise  not  only  a  Jackal,  but  a  Camel  who 
was  eating  the  sugar  canes!  This  made 
them  very  angry,  and  they  caught  the  poor 
Camel,  and  drove  him  from  the  field,  and  beat 
him  until  he  was  nearly  dead. 

When  they  had  gone,  the  Jackal  said  to 
the  Camel,  "We  had  better  go  home."  And 
the  Camel  said,  "Very  well;  then  jump  upon 
my  back,  as  you  did  before." 

So  the  Jackal  jumped  upon  the  Camel's 
back,  and  the  Camel  began  to  recross  the 
river.  When  they  had  got  well  into  the 
water,  the  Camel  said,  "This  is  a  pretty 
way  in  which  you  have  treated  me,  friend 
Jackal.    No  sooner  had  you  finished  your  own 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK  179 

dinner  than  you  must  go  yelping  about  the 
place  loud  enough  to  arouse  the  whole  vil- 
lage, and  bring  all  the  villagers  down  to  beat 
me  black  and  blue,  and  turn  me  out  of  the 
field  before  I  had  eaten  two  mouthfuls! 
What  in  the  world  did  you  make  such  a 
noise  for?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  the  Jackal.  "It  is 
a  custom  I  have.  I  always  like  to  sing  a 
little  after  dinner." 

The  Camel  waded  on  through  the  river. 
The  water  reached  up  to  his  knees — then 
above  them — up,  up,  up,  higher  and  higher, 
until  he  was  obliged  to  swim. 

Then  turning  to  the  Jackal,  he  said,  "I 
feel  very  anxious  to  roll." 

"Oh,  pray  don't;  why  do  you  wish  to  do 
so?"  asked  the  Jackal. 

"I  don't  know,"  answered  the  Camel. 
"It  is  a  custom  I  have.  I  always  like  to 
have  a  little  roll  after  dinner." 

So  saying,  he  rolled  over  in  the  water, 
shaking  the  Jackal  off  as  he  did  so.  And 
the  Jackal  was  drowned,  but  the  Camel 
swam  safely  ashore. 

Mary  Frere. 


1 80  THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

A  GOOD  THANKSGIVING 

Said  old   Gentleman   Gay,    "On  a  Thanks- 
giving Day, 
If  you  want  a  good  time,  then  give  some- 
thing away." 
So  he  sent  a  fat  turkey  to  Shoemaker  Price, 
And  the  shoemaker  said,  "What  a  big  bird! 
how  nice ! 
And,  since  a  good  dinner's  before  me,  I  ought 
To  give  poor  Widow  Lee  the  small  chicken 
I  bought." 

"This  fine  chicken,  oh,  see!"  said  the  pleased 
Widow  Lee, 
"And  the  kindness  that  sent  it,  how  precious 
to  me! 
I  would  like  to  make  some  one  as  happy  as  I — 
I'll  give  Washwoman  Biddy  my  big  pump- 
kin pie." 

"And  oh,  sure,"  Biddy  said,  "'tis  the  queen 

of  all  pies ! 
Just  to  look  at  its  yellow  face  gladdens  my 

eyes! 
Now  it's  my  turn,  I  think;  and  a  sweet  ginger 

cake 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 


For   the   motherless   Finigan  children    I  '11 
bake." 

"A  sweet  cake,  all  our  own!  Tis  too  good  to 
be  true!" 
Said  the  Finigan  children,   Rose,   Denny, 
and  Hugh; 
"It  smells  sweet  of  spice,  and  we'll  carry  a 
slice 
To  poor  little  Lame  Jake — who  has  nothing 
that's  nice." 

"Oh,  I  thank  you,  and  thank  you!"  said  little 
Lame  Jake; 
"Oh,  what  beautiful,  beautiful,  beautiful 
cake! 
And  oh,  such  a  big  slice!    I  will  save  all  the 
crumbs, 
And   will   give  'em  to  each  little  sparrow 
that  comes!" 
And  the  sparrows  they  twittered,  as  if  they 
would  say, 
Like  old  Gentleman  Gay,  "On  a  Thanks- 
giving Day, 
If  you  want  a  good  time,  then  give  something 


away!" 


Marian  Douglas. 


1 82        THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

PRAISE  GOD 

Praise  God  for  wheat,  so  white  and  sweet, 

Of  which  to  make  our  bread! 
Praise  God  for  yellow  corn,  with  which 

His  waiting  world  is  fed! 
Praise  God  for  fish  and  flesh  and  fowl 

He  gave  to  men  for  food! 
Praise  God  for  every  creature  which 

He  made  and  called  it  good! 

Praise  God  for  winter's  store  of  ice, 
Praise  God  for  summer's  heat! 

Praise  God  for  fruit  trees  bearing  seed, 
"To  you  it  is  for  meat!" 

Praise  God  for  all  the  bounty 
By  which  the  world  is  fed! 

Praise  God,  ye  children  all,  to  whom 
He  gives  your  daily  bread! 

ANDERS'  NEW  CAP 

Once  upon  a  time  there  was  a  little  boy, 
called  Anders,  who  had  a  new  cap.  And  a 
prettier  cap  you  never  could  see,  for  mother 
herself  had  knit  it;  and  nobody  could  make 
anything  quite  as  nice  as  mother  could.     It 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 183 

was  altogether  red,  except  a  small  part  in 
the  middle  which  was  green,  for  the  red  yarn 
had  given  out;   and  the  tassel  was  blue. 

His  brothers  and  sisters  walked  about 
looking  at  him,  but  Anders  cared  nothing 
about  that.  He  put  his  hands  in  his  pockets 
and  went  out  for  a  walk,  for  he  did  not 
begrudge  anybody's  seeing  how  fine  he  was. 

The  first  person  he  met  was  a  farmhand 
walking  beside  a  load  of  peat  and  smacking  at 
his  horse.  He  made  a  bow  so  deep  that  his 
back  came  near  to  breaking,  and  Anders 
trotted  proudly  by. 

At  the  turn  of  the  road  he  ran  up  against 
Lars,  the  tanner's  boy.  He  was  such  a  big  boy 
that  he  wore  high  boots  and  carried  a  jack- 
knife.  He  gaped  and  gazed  at  the  cap,  and  he 
could  not  keep  from  fingering  the  blue  tassel. 

"Let's  swap  caps,"  he  said,  "and  I  will 
give  you  my  jack-knife  to  boot." 

Now,  this  knife  was  a  splendid  one,  though 
half  the  blade  was  gone  and  the  handle  was 
a  little  cracked;  and  Anders  knew  that  one 
is  almost  a  man  as  soon  as  one  has  a  jack- 
knife.  But  still  it  did  not  come  up  to  the 
new  cap  which  mother  had  made. 


1 84        THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

"Oh,  no,  I  could  not  do  that,"  he  said. 
And  then  he  said  good-by  to  Lars  with  a 
nod,  and  went  on. 

Soon  after  this  Anders  met  a  very  old, 
old  woman,  who  curtsied  until  her  skirts 
looked  like  a  balloon.  She  said  that  he  was 
so  fine  that  he  might  go  to  the  king's  ball. 

"Yes,  why  not?"  thought  Anders.  "Seeing 
that  I  am  so  fine,  I  may  as  well  go  and  visit 
the  king." 

And  so  he  did.  In  the  palace  yards  stood 
two  soldiers  with  shining  helmets,  and  with 
guns  over  their  shoulders;  and  when  Anders 
came  both  the  guns  were  leveled  at  him. 

"Where  are  you  going?"  asked  one  of  the 
soldiers. 

"I  am  going  to  the  king's  ball,"  answered 
Anders. 

"No,  no,"  said  the  other  soldier,  putting 
his  foot  forward,  "nobody  is  allowed  there 
without  a  uniform." 

But  just  at  this  instant  the  princess  came 
tripping  across  the  yard.  She  was  dressed 
in  white  silk,  with  bows  of  gold  ribbon. 
When  she  saw  Anders  and  the  soldiers,  she 
walked  over  to  them. 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK  185 

"Oh,"' she  said,  "he  has  a  very  fine  cap  on 
his  head,  and  that  will  do  as  well  as  a  uniform." 

She  took  Anders'  hand  and  walked  with 
him  up  the  broad  marble  stairs,  where  soldiers 
were  posted  at  every  third  step,  and  through 
magnificent  halls  where  gentlemen  and  ladies 
in  silk  and  velvet  stood  bowing  wherever  he 
went.  For,  as  like  as  not,  they  must  have 
thought  him  a  prince  when  they  saw  his 
fine  cap. 

At  the  farther  end  of  the  largest  hall  a 
table  was  set  with  golden  cups  and  golden 
plates  in  long  rows.  On  huge  silver  platters 
were  pyramids  of  tarts  and  cakes.  The 
princess  sat  down  under  a  blue  canopy  with 
bouquets  of  roses  on  it;  and  she  let  Anders 
sit  in  a  golden  chair  by  her  side. 

"But  you  must  not  eat  with  your  cap  on 
your  head,"  she  said,  and  was  going  to  take 
it  off. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  can  eat  just  as  well,"  said 
Anders,  and  held  on  to  his  cap,  for  if  they 
should  take  it  away  from  him  he  did  not  feel 
sure  that  he  would  get  it  back  again. 

"Well,  well,  give  it  to  me,"  said  the  princess, 
"and  I  will  give  you  a  kiss." 


186       THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

The  princess  was  certainly  beautiful,  and 
he  would  have  dearly  liked  to  be  kissed  by 
her,  but  the  cap  which  mother  had  made  he 
could  not  give  up  on  any  condition.  He 
only  shook  his  head. 

"Well,  but  now,"  said  the  princess;  and 
she  filled  his  pockets  with  cakes,  and  put  her 
own  heavy  gold  chain  around  his  neck,  and 
bent  down  and  kissed  him. 

But  he  only  moved  farther  back  in  his 
chair,  and  did  not  take  his  hands  from  his 
head. 

Then  the  doors  were  thrown  open  and  the 
king  entered,  with  many  gentlemen  in  glit- 
tering uniforms  and  plumed  hats.  And  the 
king  himself  wore  an  ermine-bordered  purple 
mantle  which  trailed  behind  him,  and  he  had 
a  large  gold  crown  on  his  white  hair. 

He  smiled  when  he  saw  Anders  in  the  gilt 
chair. 

"That  is  a  very  fine  cap  you  have,"  he  said. 

"So  it  is,"  said  Anders,  "and  it  is  made  of 
mother's  best  yarn,  and  she  has  knit  it  her- 
self, and  every  one  wants  to  get  it  away  from 


me. 


But  surely  you  would  like  to  change  caps 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK  187 

with  me,"  said  the  king,  and  raised  his  large 
heavy  gold  crown  from  his  head. 

Anders  did  not  answer.  He  sat  as  before, 
and  held  on  to  his  red  cap,  which  every  one 
was  so  anxious  to  get.  But  when  the  king 
came  nearer  to  him,  with  his  gold  crown  in 
his  hands,  then  he  grew  frightened  as  never 
before,  for  a  king  can  do  as  he  likes. 

With  one  jump  Anders  got  out  of  his  chair. 
He  darted  like  an  arrow  through  all  the  halls, 
down  all  the  stairs,  across  the  yard.  He  ran 
so  fast  the  princess'  necklace  fell  off  his  neck 
and  all  the  cakes  jumped  out  of  his  pockets. 

But  he  had  his  cap.  He  still  held  on  to 
it  with  both  his  hands  as  he  ran  into  his 
mother's  cottage.  And  his  mother  took  him 
up  in  her  lap  and  he  told  her  all  his  adventures, 
and  how  everybody  wanted  his  cap.  And 
all  his  brothers  and  sisters  stood  around  and 
listened  with  their  mouths  open. 

But  when  his  big  brother  heard  that  he 
had  refused  to  give  his  cap  for  the  king's 
golden  crown,  he  said  that  Anders  was  stupid. 
Just  think  what  splendid  things  one  might 
get  in  exchange  for  the  crown;  and  Anders 
could  have  had  a  still  finer  cap. 


1 88  THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

Anders'  face  grew  red.  That  he  had  not 
thought  of.  He  cuddled  up  to  his  mother 
and  asked: 

"Mother,  was  I  stupid?" 

But  his  mother  hugged  him  close. 

"No,  my  little  son,"  she  said.  "If  you 
were  dressed  in  silk  and  gold  from  top  to 
toe,  you  could  not  look  any  nicer  than  in 
your  little  red  cap." 

Then  Anders  felt  brave  again.  He  knew 
well  enough  that  mother's  cap  was  the  best 
cap  in  all  the  world. 

Adapted  from  "Swedish  Fairy  Tales." 

WHO    STOLE    THE    BIRD'S    NEST? 

"To  whit!  to  whit!  to  whee! 
Will  you  listen  to  me? 
Who  stole  four  eggs  I  laid, 
And  the  nice  nest  I  made?" 

"Not  I,"  said  the  cow.     "Moo-oo! 

Such  a  thing  I'd  never  do. 

I  gave  you  a  wisp  of  hay, 

But  I  did  n't  take  your  nest  away. 

Not  I,"  said  the  cow.     "Moo-oo! 

Such  a  thing  I'd  never  do." 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 189 

' 'To  whit!  to  whit!  to  whee! 
Will  you  listen  to  me? 
Who  stole  four  eggs  I  laid, 
And  the  nice  nest  I  made?" 

"Bob-o-link!  bob-o-link! 
Now  what  do  you  think? 
Who  stole  a  nest  away 
From  the  plum  tree  to-day?" 

"Not  I,"  said  the  dog.    ''Bow-wow! 
I  wouldn't  be  so  mean,  anyhow! 
I  gave  the  hairs  the  nest  to  make, 
But  the  nest  I  did  not  take. 
"Not  I,"  said  the  dog.    "Bow-wow! 
I'm  not  so  mean,  anyhow." 

"To  whit!   to  whit!  to  whee! 
Will  you  listen  to  me? 
Who  stole  four  eggs  I  laid, 
And  the  nice  nest  I  made?" 

"Bob-o-link!  bob-o-link! 
Now  what  do  you  think? 
Who  stole  a  nest  away, 
From  the  plum  tree  to-day?" 


i9o  THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

1 '  Coo-coo !    coo-coo !    coo-coo ! 
Let  me  speak  a  word  or  two! 
Who  stole  that  pretty  nest 
From  little  Yellowbreast?', 

"Not  I,"  said  the  sheep,  "Oh,  no! 

I  wouldn't  treat  a  little  bird  so. 

I  gave  the  wool  the  nest  to  line, 

But  the  nest  was  none  of  mine. 

"Baa!  baa!"  said  the  sheep.     "Oh,  no! 

I  wouldn't  treat  a  little  bird  so!" 

"To  whit!  to  whit!  to  whee! 
Will  you  listen  to  me? 
Who  stole  four  eggs  I  laid, 
And  the  nice  nest  I  made?" 

"Bob-o-link!  bob-o-link! 
Now  what  do  you  think? 
Who  stole  a  nest  away 
From  the  plum  tree  to-day?" 

1 '  Coo-coo !   coo-coo !   coo-coo ! 
Let  me  speak  a  word  or  two! 
Who  stole  the  pretty  nest 
From  little  Yellowbreast?" 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK  191 

"Caw!   caw!"  cried  the  crow, 
"I  should  like  to  know 
What  thief  took  away 
A  bird's  nest  to-day?" 

" Cluck!   cluck!"  said  the  hen, 
"Don't  ask  me  again! 
Why  I  haven't  a  chick 
Would  do  such  a  trick. 

"We  all  gave  a  feather, 
And  she  wove  them  together. 
I'd  scorn  to  intrude 
On  her  and  her  brood/ 
Cluck!   cluck!"  said  the  hen, 
"Don't  ask  me  again!" 

1 1  Chirr-a- whirr !   Chirr-a- whirr ! 
All  the  birds  make  a  stir! 
Let  us  find  out  his  name, 
And  all  cry  'For  shame!'" 

"I  would  not  rob  a  bird," 
Said  little  Mary  Green. 
"I  think  I  never  heard 
Of  anything  so  mean." 


i92  THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

"It  is  very  cruel,  too," 

Said  little  Alice  Neal, 

1 '  I  wonder  if  he  knew 

How  sad  the  bird  would  feel." 

A  little  boy  hung  down  his  head, 
And  went  and  hid  behind  the  bed, 
For  he  stole  that  pretty  nest 
From  poor  little  Yellowbreast. 
And  he  felt  so  full  of  shame, 
He  didn't  like  to  tell  his  name. 

Lydia  Maria  Child. 

THE  STRAW  OX1 

There  was  once  upon  a  time  an  old  man  and 
an  old  woman.  The  old  man  worked  in  the 
fields  as  a  pitch-burner,  while  the  old  woman 
sat  at  home  and  spun  flax.  They  were  so 
poor  that  they  could  save  nothing  at  all;  all 
their  earnings  went  in  bare  food,  and  when 
that  was  gone  there  was  nothing  left.  At 
last  the  old  woman  had  a  good  idea: 

"  Look  now,  husband,"  cried  she,  "make  me 
a  straw  ox,  and  smear  it  all  over  with  tar." 

"Why,    you    foolish    woman!"     said    he, 

1  From  "Cossack  Fairy  Tales."    By  permission  of  the  publishers,  A.  L.  Burt 
Company,  New  York. 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK  193 

"what's  the  good  of  an   ox  of  that  sort?" 

" Never  mind,"  said  she,  "you  just  make 
it.     I  know  what  I  am  about." 

What  was  the  poor  man  to  do?  He  set  to 
work  and  made  the  ox  of  straw,  and  smeared 
it  all  over  with  tar. 

The  night  passed  away,  and  at  early  dawn 
the  old  woman  took  her  distaff,  and  drove  the 
straw  ox  out  into  the  steppe  to  graze,  and  she 
herself  sat  down  behind  a  hillock,  and  began 
spinning  her  flax,  and  cried: 

"Graze  away,  little  ox,  while  I  spin  my 
flax.  Graze  away,  little  ox,  while  I  spin  my 
flax! "  And  while  she  spun,  her  head  drooped 
down  and  she  began  to  doze,  and  while  she  was 
dozing,  from  behind  the  dark  wood  and  from 
the  back  of  the  huge  pines  a  bear  came  rush- 
ing out  upon  the  ox  and  said: 

"Who  are  you?     Speak,  and  tell  me!" 

And  the  ox  said : 

"A  three-year-old  heifer  am  I,  made  of 
straw  and  smeared  with  tar." 

"Oh!"  said  the  bear,  "stuffed  with  straw 
and  trimmed  with  tar,  are  you?  Then  give 
me  of  your  straw  and  tar,  that  I  may  patch 
up  my  ragged  fur  again!" 


194  THE   STORY  TELLER'S   BOOK 

''Take  some,"  said  the  ox,  and  the  bear 
fell  upon  him  and  began  to  tear  away  at 
the  tar. 

He  tore  and  tore,  and  buried  his  teeth  in 
it  till  he  found  he  couldn't  let  go  again.  He 
tugged  and  he  tugged,  but  it  was  no  good, 
and  the  ox  dragged  him  gradually  off,  good- 
ness knows  where. 

Then  the  old  woman  awoke,  and  there 
was  no  ox  to  be  seen.  "Alas!  old  fool  that 
I  am!"  cried  she,  "perchance  it  has  gone 
home."  Then  she  quickly  caught  up  her 
distaff  and  spinning  board,  threw  them  over 
her  shoulders,  and  hastened  off  home,  and  she 
saw  that  the  ox  had  ^dragged  the  bear  up  to 
the  fence,  and  in  she  went  to  her  old  man. 

"Dad,  dad,"  she  cried,  "look,  look!  The 
ox  has  brought  us  a  bear.  Come  out  and 
kill  it!"  Then  the  old  man  jumped  up,  tore 
off  the  bear,  tied  him  up,  and  threw  him  in 
the  cellar. 

Next  morning,  between  dark  and  dawn, 
the  old  woman  took  her  distaff  and  drove  the 
ox  into  the  steppe  to  graze.  She  herself  sat 
down  by  a  mound,  began  spinning,  and  said: 

"Graze,  graze  away,  little  ox,  while  I  spin 


THE   STORY  TELLER'S   BOOK  195 

my  flax!  Graze,  graze  away,  little  ox,  while 
I  spin  my  flax!"  And  while  she  spun,  her 
head  drooped  down  and  she  dozed.  And, 
lo!  from  behind  the  dark  wood,  from  the 
back  of  the  huge  pines,  a  gray  wolf  came 
rushing  out  upon  the  ox  and  said: 

"Who  are  you?     Come,  tell  me!" 

"I  am  a  three-year-old  heifer,  stuffed  with 
straw  and  trimmed  with  tar,"  said  the  ox. 

"Oh!  trimmed  with  tar,  are  you?  Then 
give  me  of  your  tar  to  tar  my  sides,  that  the 
dogs  and -the  sons  of  dogs  tear  me  not!" 

"Take  some,"  said  the  ox.  And  with  that 
the  wolf  fell  upon  him  and  tried  to  tear 
the  tar  off.  He  tugged  and  tugged,  and  tore 
with  his  teeth,  but  could  get  none  off.  Then 
he  tried  to  let  go,  and  couldn't;  tug  and 
worry  as  he  might,  it  was  no  good.  When 
the  old  woman  woke,  there  was  no  heifer 
in  sight.  ' '  Maybe  my  heifer  has  gone  home ! ' ' 
she  cried.  "I'll  go  home  and  see."  When 
she  got  there  she  was  astonished,  for  by  the 
paling  stood  the  ox  with  the  wolf  still  tugging 
at  it.  She  ran  and  told  her  old  man,  and  her 
old  man  came  and  threw  the  wolf  into  the 
cellar  also. 


196  THE   STORY"  TELLER'S   BOOK 

On  the  third  day  the  old  woman  again 
drove  her  ox  into  the  pastures  to  graze,  and 
sat  down  by  a  mound  and  dozed  off.  Then 
a  fox  came  running  up.  "Who  are  you?" 
it  asked  the  ox. 

"I'm  a  three-year-old  heifer,  stuffed  with 
straw  and  daubed  with  tar." 

"Then  give  me  some  of  your  tar  to  smear 
my  sides  with,  when  those  dogs  and  sons  of 
dogs  tear  my  hide! " 

"Take  some,"  said  the  ox.  Then  the  fox 
fastened  her  teeth  in  him  and  couldn't  draw 
them  out  again.  The  old  woman  told  her 
old  man,  and  he  took  and  cast  the  fox  into 
the  cellar  in  the  same  way.  And  after  that 
they  caught  Pussy  Swiftfoot !  likewise. 

vSo  when  he  had  got  them  all  safely  the  old 
man  sat  down  on  a  bench  before  the  cellar 
and  began  sharpening  a  knife.  And  the 
bear  said  to  him: 

"Tell  me,  daddy,  what  are  you  sharpening 
your  knife  for  ? ' ' 

"To  flay  your  skin  off,  that  I  may  make  a 
leather  jacket  for  myself  and  a  pelisse  for 
my  old  woman." 

1  The  hare.  ^ 


THE   STORY  TELLER'S   BOOK  197 


"Oh!  don't  flay  me,  daddy  dear!  Rather 
let  me  go,  and  I  '11  bring  you  a  lot  of  honey." 

"  Very  well,  see  you  do  it,"  and  he  unbound 
and  let  the  bear  go.  Then  he  sat  down  on 
the  bench  and  again  began  sharpening  his 
knife.     And  the  wolf  asked  him: 

"Daddy,  what  are  you  sharpening  your 
knife  for?" 

"  To  flay  off  your  skin,  that  I  may  make  me 
a  warm  cap  against  the  winter." 

"Oh!  Don't  flay  me,  daddy  dear,  and  I'll 
bring  you  a  whole  herd  of  little  sheep." 

"Well,  see  that  you  do  it,"  and  he  let  the 
wolf  go. 

Then  he  sat  down,  and  began  sharpening 
his  knife  again.  The  fox  put  out  her  little 
snout,  and  asked  him: 

"Be  so  kind,  dear  daddy,  and  tell  me  why 
you  are  sharpening  your  knife!" 

"Little  foxes,"  said  the  old  man,  "have 
nice  skins  that  do  capitally  for  collars  and 
trimmings,  and  I  want  to  skin  you!" 

"Oh!  Don't  take  my  skin  away,  daddy 
dear,  and  I  will  bring  you  hens  and  geese." 

"Very  well,  see  that  you  do  it!"  and  he  let 
the  fox  go. 


1 98  THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

The  hare  now  alone  remained,  and  the  old 
man  began  sharpening  his  knife  on  the  hare's 
account. 

"Why  do  you  do  that?"  asked  Puss,  and 
he  replied: 

"  Little  hares  have  nice  little,  soft,  warm 
skins,  which  will  make  me  nice  gloves  and 
mittens  against  the  winter!" 

"Oh!  daddy  dear!  Don't  flay  me,  and  I'll 
bring  you  kale  and  good  cauliflower,  if  only 
you  let  me  go!" 

Then  he  let  the  hare  go  also. 

Then  they  went  to  bed:  but  very  early 
in  the  morning,  when  it  was  neither  dusk 
nor  dawn,  there  was  a  noise  in  the  doorway 
like  "Durrrrrr!" 

"Daddy!"  cried  the  old  woman,  "there's 
some  one  scratching  at  the  door:  go  and  see 
who  it  is!" 

The  old  man  went  out,  and  there  was  the 
bear  carrying  a  whole  hive  full  of  honey. 
The  old  man  took  the  honey  from  the  bear; 
but  no  sooner  did  he  lie  down  again  than 
there  was  another  "Durrrrr!"  at  the  door. 
The  old  man  looked  out  and  saw  the 
wolf  driving  a  whole  flock  of  sheep  into  the 


THE   STORY  TELLER'S   BOOK  199 

courtyard.  Close  on  his  heels  came  the  fox, 
driving  before  him  the  geese  and  hens,  and 
all  manner  of  fowls;  and  last  of  all  came 
the  hare,  bringing  cabbage  and  kale,  and  all 
manner  of  good  food. 

And  the  old  man  was  glad,  and  the  old 
woman  was  glad.  And  the  old  man  sold 
the  sheep  and  oxen,  and  got  so  rich  that 
he   needed   nothing   more. 

As  for  the  straw-stuffed  ox,  it  stood  in  the 
sun  till  it  fell  to  pieces. 

R.  Nesbit  Bain. 

NURSERY  SONG 

As  I  walked  over  the  hill  one  day, 

I  listened,  and  heard  a  mother  sheep  say, 

"In  all  the  green  world  there  is  nothing  so 

sweet 
As  my  little  lamb,  with  his  nimble  feet; 

With  his  eye  so  bright, 

And  his  wool  so  white, 
Oh,  he  is  my  darling,  my  heart's  delight!" 
And  the  mother  sheep  and  her  little  one 
Side  by  side  lay  down  in  the  sun; 
And  they  went  to  sleep  on  the  hillside  warm, 
While  my  little  lambie  lies  here  on  my  arm. 


200 THE   STORY   TELLER'S   BOOK 

I  went  to  the  kitchen,  and  what  did  I  see 
But  the  old  gray  cat  with  her  kittens  three! 
I  heard  her  whispering  soft;  said  she, 
"My  kittens,  with  tails  so  cunningly  curled, 
Are  the  prettiest  things  that  can  be  in  the 
world. 

The  bird  on  the  tree, 

And  the  old  ewe,  she, 
May  love  their  babies  exceedingly; 

But  I  love  my  kittens  there, 

Under  the  rocking  chair. 
I  love  my  kittens  with  all  my  might, 
I  love  them  at  morning,  noon,  and  night. 
Now  I  '11  take  up  my  kitties,  the  kitties  I  love, 
And  we  '11  lie  down  together  beneath  the  warm 

stove." 
Let  the  kittens  sleep  under  the  stove  so  warm, 
While  my  little  darling  lies  here  on  my  arm. 

I  went  to  the  yard,  and  I  saw  the  old  hen 

Go  clucking  about  with  her  chickens  ten; 

She  clucked  and  she  scratched  and  she  bustled 

away, 

And  what  do  you  think  I  heard  the  hen  say? 

I  heard  her  say,  "The  sun  never  did  shine 

On  anything  like  to  these  chickens  of  mine. 
12 


THE   STORY   TELLER'S   BOOK 


You  may  hunt  the  full  moon  and  the  stars, 

if  you  please, 
But  you  will  not  find  ten  such  chickens  as 

these. 
My  dear,  downy   darlings,  my    sweet    little 

things, 
Come,  nestle  now  cozily  under  my  wings." 
So  the  hen  said, 
And  the  chickens  all  sped 
As  fast  as  they  could  to  their  nice  feather  bed. 
And  there  let  them  sleep,  in  their  feathers  so 

warm, 
While  my  little  chick  lies  here  on  my  arm. 

Mrs.  Carter. 

THE  STARS  IN  THE  SKY1 

Once  on  a  time  and  twice  on  a  time,  and 
all  times  together  as  ever  I  heard  tell  of, 
there  was  a  tiny  lassie  who  would  weep  all 
day  to  have  the  stars  in  the  sky  to  play  with  ; 
she  wouldn't  have  this,  and  she  wouldn't 
have  that,  but  it  was  always  the  stars  she 
would  have.  So  one  fine  day  off  she  walked, 
till  by  and  by  she  came  to  a  mill  dam. 

"Goode'en  to  ye,"  says  she;   "I'm  seeking 

1  From  "  Magic  Casements."      By  permission  of  the  publishers,  Doubleday 
Page  6*  Company    New  York. 


202  THE   STORY  TELLER'S   BOOK 

the  stars  in  the  sky  to  play  with.  Have  you 
seen  any?" 

"Oh,  yes,  my  bonny  lassie,"  said  the  mill 
dam.  "They  shine  in  my  own  face  o'  nights 
till  I  can't  sleep  for  them.  Jump  in,  and 
perhaps  you'll  find  one." 

So  she  jumped  in,  and  swam  about  and 
swam  about,  but  ne'er  a  one  could  she  see. 
So  she  went  on  till  she  came  to  a  brooklet. 

"Good e'en  to  ye,  Brooklet,  Brooklet," 
says  she;  "I'm  seeking  the  stars  in  the  sky 
to  play  with.     Have  you  seen  any?  " 

"Yes,  indeed,  my  bonny  lassie,"  said  the 
brooklet.  "They  glint  on  my  banks  at  night. 
Paddle  about,  and  maybe  you'll  find  one." 

So  she  paddled  and  she  paddled  and  she 
paddled,  but  ne'er  a  one  did  she  find.  So  on 
she  went  till  she  came  to  the  Good  Folk. 

"Good  e'en  to  ye,  Good  Folk,"  says  she; 
"I'm  looking  for  the  stars  in  the  sky  to  play 
with.     Have  ye  seen  e'er  a  one?" 

"Why,  yes,  my  bonny  lassie,"  said  the 
Good  Folk.  "They  shine  on  the  grass  here 
o'  nights.  Dance  with  us,  and  maybe  you'll 
find  one." 

And  she  danced  and  she  danced  and  she 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK''  203 

danced,  but  ne'er  a  one  did  she  see.  So 
down  she  sat;  I  suppose  she  wept. 

"Oh,  dearie  me,  oh,  dearie  me.  I've  swam 
and  I've  paddled  and  I've  danced,  and  if 
you'll  not  help  me  I  shall  never  find  the  stars 
in  the  sky  to  play  with. " 

But  the  Good  Folk  whispered  together, 
and  one  of  them  came  up  to  her  and  took  her 
by  the  hand  and  said:  "If  you  won't  go 
home  to  your  mother,  go  forward,  go  forward; 
mind  you  take  the  right  road.  Ask  Four 
Feet  to  carry  you  to  No  Feet  at  All,  and  tell 
No  Feet  at  All  to  carry  you  to  the  stairs 
without  steps,  and  if  you  can  climb  that — " 

"Oh,  shall  I  be  among  the  stars  in  the  sky 
then?"  cried  the  lassie, 

"If  you'll  not  be,  then  you'll  be  elsewhere, " 
said  the  Good  Folk,  and  set  to  dancing  again. 

So  on  she  went  again  with  a  light  heart,  and 
by  and  by  she  came  to  a  saddled  horse,  tied 
to  a  tree. 

"Goode'en  to  ye,  Beast,"  said  she;  "I'm 
seeking  the  stars  in  the  sky  to  play  with. 
Will  you  give  me  a  lift,  for  all  my  bones  are 
an-aching. " 

"Nay,"  said  the  horse,  "I  know  naught  of 


204  THE   STORY   TELLER'S   BOOK 

the  stars  in  the  sky,  and  I  'm  here  to  do  the  bid- 
ding of  the  Good  Folk,  and  not  my  own  will.  " 

"Well,"  said  she,  "it's  from  the  Good  Folk 
I  come,  and  they  bade  me  tell  Four  Feet  to 
carry  me  to  No  Feet  at  All." 

"That's  another  story,"  said  he;  "jump 
up  and  ride  with  me. " 

So  they  rode  and  they  rode  and  they  rode, 
till  they  got  out  of  the  forest  and  found  them- 
selves at  the  edge  of  the  sea.  And  on  the 
water  in  front  of  them  was  a  wide,  glistening 
path  running  straight  out  toward  a  beautiful 
thing  that  rose  out  of  the  water  and  went  up 
into  the  sky,  and  was  all  the  colors  in  the 
world,  blue  and  red  and  green,  and  wonderful 
to  look  at. 

"Now  get  you  down,"  said  the  horse; 
"I've  brought  ye  to  the  end  of  the  land,  and 
that  'sas  much  as  Four  Feet  can  do.  I  must 
away  home  to  my  own  folk." 

"But,"  said  the  lassie,  "where's  No  Feet 
at  All,  and  where's  the  stair  without  steps?" 

"I  know  not,"  said  the  horse,  "it's  none 
of  my  business,  neither.  So  good  e  'en  to  ye, 
my  bonny  lassie";  and  off  he  went. 

So  the  lassie  stood  still  and  looked  at  the 


THE   STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 


water,  till  a  strange  kind  of  fish  came  swim- 
ming up  to  her  feet. 

Good  e'en  to  ye,  big  Fish,"  says  she; 
"I'm  looking  for  the  stars  in  the  sky,  and  for 
the  stairs  that  climb  up  to  them.  Will  ye 
show  me  the  way?" 

"Nay,"  said  the  fish;  "I  can't  unless  you 
bring  me  word  from  the  Good  Folk."  • 

"Yes,  indeed, "  said  she.  "They  said  Four 
Feet  would  bring  me  to  No  Feet  at  All,  and 
No  Feet  at  All  would  carry  me  to  the  stairs 
without  steps." 

"Ah,  well,"  said  the  fish;  "that's  all 
right  then.     Get  on  my  back  and  hold  fast. " 

And  off  he  went,  kerplash!  into  the  water, 
along  the  silver  path  toward  the  bright  arch. 
And  the  nearer  they  came  the  brighter  the 
sheen  of  it,  till  she  had  to  shade  her  eyes  from 
the  light  of  it. 

And  as  they  came  to  the  foot  of  it  she  saw 
it  was  a  broad,  bright  road,  sloping  up  and 
away  into  the  sky,  and  at  the  far,  far  end  of 
it  she  could  see  wee  shining  things  dancing 
about. 

"Now,"  said  the  fish,  "here  you  are,  and 
yon's  the  stair;  climb  up,  if  you  can,  but  hold 


206  THE   STORY   TELLER'S   BOOK 

on  fast.  I'll  warrant  you  find  the  stair 
easier  at  home  than  by  such  a  way;  'twas 
ne'er  meant  for  lassies'  feet  to  travel";  and 
off  he  splashed  through  the  water. 

So  she  clomb  and  she  clomb  and  she  clomb, 
but  ne'er  a  step  higher  did  she  get;  the  light 
was  before  her  and  around  her,  and  the  water 
behind  her,  and  the  more  she  struggled  the 
more  she  was  forced  down  into  the  dark  and 
the  cold,  and  the  more  she  clomb  the  deeper 
she  fell. 

But  she  clomb  and  she  clomb,  till  she  got 
dizzy  in  the  light  and  shivered  with  the  cold, 
and  dazed  with  the  fear;  but  still  she  clomb, 
till  at  last,  quite  dazed  and  silly-like,  she  let 
clean  go,  and  sank  down — down — down. 

And  bang  she  came  on  to  the  hard  boards, 
and  found  herself  sitting,  weeping  and  wail- 
ing, by  the  bedside  at  home  all  alone. 

Kate  Douglas  Wiggin  and  Nora  Smith. 

THE  FAIRIES  OF  THE  CALDON  LOW 

"And  where  have  you  been,  my  Mary, 
And  where  have  you  been  from  me?" 

" I've  been  to  the  top  of  the  Caldon  Low, 
The  midsummer-night  to  see!" 


THE   STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK  207 

"And  what  did  you  see,  my  Mary, 

All  up  on  the  Caldon  Low?" 
"I  saw  the  glad  sunshine  come  down, 

And  I  saw  the  merry  winds  blow." 

"And  what  did  you  hear,  my  Mary, 

All  up  on  the  Caldon  Low?" 
"I  heard  the  drops  of  the  waters  made, 

And  the  ears  of  the  green  corn  fill." 

"Oh!   tell  me  all,  my  Mary, 

All,  all  that  ever  you  know; 
For  you  must  have  seen  the  fairies 

Last  night  on  the  Caldon  Low." 

"Then  take  me  on  your  knee,  mother; 

And  listen,  mother  of  mine. 
A  hundred  fairies  danced  last  night, 

And  the  harpers  they  were  nine. 

"And  their  harp-strings  rung  so  merrily 
To  their  dancing  feet  so  small ; 

But  oh!  the  words  of  their  talking 
Were  merrier  far  than  all." 

"And  what  were  the  words,  my  Mary, 
That  then  you  heard  them  say?" 


208  THE   STORY  TELLER'S   BOOK 

"I'll  tell  you  all,  my  mother; 
But  let  me  have  my  way. 

"Some  of  them  played  with  the  water, 

And  rolled  it  down  the  hill; 
'And  this,'  they  said,  'shall  speedily  turn 

The  poor  old  miller's  mill: 

"  'For  there  has  been  no  water 

Ever  since  the  first  of  May; 
And  a  busy  man  will  the  miller  be 

At  dawning  of  the  day. 

' '  '  Oh !  the  miller,  how  he  will  laugh 
When  he  sees  the  mill  dam  rise! 

The  jolly  old  miller,  how  he  will  laugh, 
Till  the  tears  fill  both  his  eyes!' 

"And  some  they  seized  the  little  winds 

That  sounded  over  the  hill; 
And  each  put  a  horn  into  his  mouth, 

And  blew  both  loud  and  shrill: 

" '  And  there,'  they  said, '  the  merry  winds  go, 

Away  from  every  horn; 
And  they  shall  clear  the  mildew  dank 

From  the  blind  old  widow's  com. 


THE   STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK  209 

"  'Oh!  the  poor  blind  widow, 

Though  she  has  been  blind  so  long, 

She'll  be  blithe  enough  when  the  mildew's 
gone, 
And  the  corn  stands  tall  and  strong.' 

"And  some  they  brought  the  brown  lintseed 
And  flung  it  down  from  the  Low; 

'And  this,'  they  said,  'by  the  sunrise, 
In  the  weaver's  croft  shall  grow. 

"  'Oh!  the  poor  lame  weaver, 

How  he  will  laugh  outright, 
When  he  sees  his  dwindling  flax  field 

All  full  of  flowers  by  night!' 

"And  then  out  spoke  a  brownie, 
With  a  long  beard  on  his  chin ; 

'I  have  spun  up  all  the  tow,'  said  he, 
'And  I  want  some  more  to  spin. 

"  'I've  spun  a  piece  of  hempen  cloth, 

And  I  w7ant  to  spin  another; 
A  little  sheet  for  Mary's  bed, 

And  an  apron  for  her  mother.' 

"With  that  I  could  not  help  but  laugh, 
And  I  laughed  out  loud  and  free; 


210       THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

And  then  on  top  of  the  Caldon  Low 
There  was  no  one  left  but  me. 

"And  all  on  the  top  of  the  Caldon  Low 
The  mists  were  cold  and  gray, 

And  nothing  I  saw  but  the  mossy  stones 
That  round  about  me  lay. 

"But  coming  down  from  the  hilltop, 

I  heard  afar  below 
How  busy  the  jolly  miller  was 

And  how  the  wheel  did  go. 

"And  I  peeped  into  the  widow's  field, 
And  sure  enough,  were  seen 

The  yellow  ears  of  the  mildewed  corn, 
All  standing  stout  and  green. 

"And  down  to  the  weaver's  croft  I  stole, 
To  see  if  the  flax  were  sprung; 

But  I  met  the  weaver  at  his  gate, 
With  the  good  news  on  his  tongue. 

"Now  this  is  all  I  heard,  mother, 

And  all  that  I  did  see; 
So,  pr'ythee,  make  my  bed,  mother, 

For  I'm  tired  as  I  can  be." 

Mary  Howitt. 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 


FINDING  A   DARK   PLACE 

Once  there  was  a  dark  place,  a  very  dark 
place,  and  all  the  birds  and  bees  and  butter- 
flies were  talking  about  it. 

A  bird  said,  "I  will  go  and  see  if  it  is  a 
dark  place." 

So  he  flew  to  it,  and  came  back,  saying, 
"Yes,  it  is  a  dark  place." 

Then  a  bee  said,  "Buzz,  buzzzz!  I  '11  go 
and  find  the  dark  place."  And  when  he  came 
back  he  said,  "Oh,  my,  what  a  dark  place 
I  found!" 

Then  a  butterfly  flew  to  find  it,  and  when 
he  came  back  he  said,  "Yes,  it  is  a  dark, 
dark  place." 

Then  the  wind  said  he  would  go  and  find 
it,  and  he  puffed  out  his  cheeks  (this  way) 
and  blew  himself  along.  When  he  came  back 
he  said,  "Yes,  it  is  the  very  darkest  place  I 
ever  saw." 

So  then  the  sun  said,  "I  11  go  and  find  the 
dark  place,"  and  when  he  came  back  he  said, 
"I  couldn't  find  a  dark  place,  and  there 
is  n't  any  dark  place  anywhere." 

Why  could  n't  the  sun  find  a  dark  place? 


212        THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

MABEL   ON    MIDSUMMER   DAY 

PART  I 

"Arise,  my  maiden,  Mabel," 

The  mother  said,    "arise, 
For  the  golden  sun  of  Midsummer 

Is  shining  in  the  skies. 

"Arise,  my  little  maiden, 

For  thou  must  speed  away 

To  wait  upon  thy  grandmother, 
This  livelong  summer  day. 

"And  thou  must  carry  with  thee 
This  wheaten  cake  so  fine, 

This  new-made  pat  of  butter, 
This  little  flask  of  wine. 

"And  tell  the  dear  old  body 

This  day  I  cannot  come, 
For  the  goodman  went  out  yestermorn, 

And  he  is  not  come  home. 

"And  more  than  this,  poor  Amy 

Upon  my  knee  doth  lie; 
I  fear  me  with  this  fever  pain 

The  little  child  will  die! 


THE   STORY  TELLER'S   BOOK  213 

"And  thou  canst  help  thy  grandmother; 

The  table  thou  canst  spread, 
Canst  feed  the  little  dog  and  bird, 

And  thou  canst  make  her  bed. 

"And  thou  canst  fetch  the  water 
From  the  lady- well  hard  by; 

And  thou  canst  gather  from  the  wood 
The  fagots  brown  and  dry. 

"Canst  go  down  to  the  lonesome  glen, 

To  milk  the  mother  ewe; 
This  is  the  work,  my  Mabel, 

That  thou  wilt  have  to  do. 

"But  listen  now,  my  Mabel; 

This  is  Midsummer  Day, 
When  all  the  fairy  people 

From  elf -land  come  away. 

"And  when  thou  art  in  lonesome  glen, 

Keep  by  the  running  burn, 
And  do  not  pluck  the  strawberry  flower, 

Nor  break  the  lady  fern. 

"But  think  not  of  the  fairy  folk 
Lest  mischief  should  befall; 


214  THE   STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

Think  only  of  poor  Amy, 

And  how  thou  lov'st  us  all. 

"Yet  keep  good  heart,  my  Mabel, 

If  thou  the  fairies  see, 
And  give  them  kindly  answer 

If  they  should  speak  to  thee. 

"And  when  into  the  fir  wood 
Thou  go'st  for  fagots  brown, 

Do  not,  like  idle  children, 

Go  wandering  up  and  down. 

"But  fill  thy  little  apron, 

My  child,  with  earnest  speed; 

And  that  thou  break  no  living  bough 
Within  the  wood,  take  heed. 

"For  they  are  spiteful  brownies 

Who  in  the  wood  abide, 
So  be  thou  careful  of  this  thing, 

Lest  evil  should  betide. 

"But  think  not,  little  Mabel, 
Whil' st  thou  art  in  the  wood, 

Of  dwarfish,  wilful  brownies, 
But  of  the  Father  good. 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK  215 

"And  when  thou  goest  to  the  spring 

To  fetch  the  water  thence, 
Do  not  disturb  the  little  stream, 

Lest  this  should  give  offense. 

"For  the  queen  of  all  the  fairies, 

She  loves  that  water  bright; 
I've  seen  her  drinking  there  myself 

On  many  a  summer  night. 

"But  she's  a  gracious  lady, 

And  her  thou  need'st  not  fear; 

Only  disturb  thou  not  the  stream, 
Nor  spill  the  water  clear." 

"Now  all  this  will  I  heed,  mother; 

Will  no  word  disobey, 
And  wait  upon  the  grandmother 

This  livelong  summer  day." 

PART  II 

Away  tripped  little  Mabel, 

With  the  wheaten  cake  so  fine, 

With  the  new-made  pat  of  butter, 
And  the  little  flask  of  wine. 

And  long  before  the  sun  was  hot 
And  morning  mists  had  cleared, 


2\6 THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

Beside  the  good  old  grandmother 
The  willing  child  appeared. 

And  all  her  mother's  message 
She  told  with  right  good  will, 

How  that  the  father  was  away 
And  the  little  child  was  ill. 

And  then  she  swept  the  hearth  up  clean, 
And  then  the  table  spread, 

And  next  she  fed  the  dog  and  bird, 
And  then  she  made  the  bed. 

"And  go  now/'  said  the  grandmother, 

"Ten  paces  down  the  dell, 
And  bring  in  water  for  the  day, — 
Thou  know'st  the  lady-well." 

The  first  time  that  good  Mabel  went, 

Nothing  at  all  saw  she 
Except  a  bird,  a  sky-blue  bird, 

That  sat  upon  a  tree. 

The  next  time  that  good  Mabel  went, 

There  sat  a  lady  bright 
Beside  the  well, — a  lady  small, 

All  clothed  in  green  and  white. 


THE   STORY   TELLER'S   BOOK 


A  curtsey  low  made  Mabel, 
And  then  she  stooped  to  fill 

Her  pitcher  at  the  sparkling  spring, 
But  no  drop  did  she  spill. 

"Thou  art  a  handy  maiden," 

The  fairy  lady  said; 
"Thou  hast  not  spilled  a  drqp,  nor  yet 

The  fair  spring  troubled! 

"And  for  this  thing  which  thou  hast  done, 
Yet  may'st  not  understand, 

I  give  to  thee  a  better  gift 
Than  houses  or  than  land. 

"Thou  shalt  do  well  whate'er  thou  dost, 
As  thou  hast  done  this  day; 

Shalt  have  the  will  and  power  to  please, 
And  shalt  be  loved  alway." 

Thus  having  said  she  passed  from  sight ; 

And  naught  could  Mabel  see 
But  the  little  bird,  the  sky-blue  bird, 

Upon  the  leafy  tree. 

"And  now,  go,"  said  the  grandmother, 
"And  fetch  in  fagots  dry; 


2i 8       THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

All  in  the  neighboring  fir  wood 
Beneath  the  trees  they  lie." 

Away  went  kind,  good  Mabel, 

Into  the  fir  wood  near, 
Where  all  the  ground  was  dry  and  brown 

And  the  grass  grew  thin  and  sere. 

She  did  not  wander  up  and  down, 

Nor  yet  a  live  branch  pull, 
But  steadily  of  the  fallen  boughs 

She  picked  her  apron  full. 

And  when  the  wild-wood  brownies 

Came  sliding  to  her  mind, 
She  drove  them  thence,  as  she  was  told, 

With  home  thoughts  sweet  and  kind. 

But  all  that  while,  the  brownies 

Within  the  fir  wood  still, 
They  watched  her  how  she  picked  the  wood 

And  strove  to  do  no  ill. 

"And  oh!  but  she  is  small  and  neat," 
Said  one;    "  'twere  shame  to  spite 

A  creature  so  demure  and  meek, 
A  creature  harmless  quite!" 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK  219 

"Look  only,"  said  another, 

"At  her  little  gown  of  blue; 
At  her  kerchief  pinned  about  her  head, 

And  at  her  little  shoe!" 

"Oh!  but  she  is  a  comely  child," 
Said  a  third;   "and  we  will  lay 

A  good-luck  penny  in  her  path, 
A  boon  for  her  this  day — 

Seeing  she  broke  no  living  wood, 
No  live  thing  did  affray! " 

With  that  the  smallest  penny 

Of  the  finest  silver  ore, 
Upon  the  dry  and  slippery  path, 

Lay  Mabel's  feet  before. 

With  joy  she  picked  the  penny  up, 

The  fairy  penny  good; 
And  with  her  fagots  dry  and  brown 

Went  wondering  from  the  wood. 

"Now  she  has  that,"  the  brownies  said, 

"Let  flax  be  ever  so  dear, 
'Twill  buy  her  clothes  of  the  very  best, 

For  many  and  many  a  year! " 


220  THE   STORY   TELLER'S   BOOK 

"And  go  now,"  said  the  grandmother, 

"Since  falling  is  the  dew, 
Go  down  into  the  lonesome  glen, 

And  milk  the  mother  ewe." 

All  down  into  the  lonesome  glen, 
Through  copses  thick  and  wild, 

Through  moist,  rank  grass,  by  trickling 
stream, 
Went  on  the  willing  child. 

And  when  she  came  to  lonesome  glen, 

She  kept  beside  the  burn, 
And  neither  plucked  the  strawberry  flower 

Nor  broke  the  lady  fern. 

And  while  she  milked  the  mother  ewe 

Within  the  lonesome  glen, 
She  wished  that  little  Amy 

Were  strong  and  well  again. 

And  soon  as  she  had  thought  this  thought, 

She  heard  a  coming  sound 
As  if  a  thousand  fairy  folk 

Were  gathering  all  around. 

And  then  she  heard  a  little  voice, 
Shrill  as  the  midge's  wing, 


THE   STORY  TELLER'S   BOOK  221 

That  spake  aloud,  "A  human  child 
Is  here — yet  mark  this  thing, ! 

"The  lady  fern  is  all  unbroke, 
The  strawberry  flower  unta'en! 

What  shall  be  done  for  her  who  still 
From  mischief  can  refrain?" 

"Give  her  a  fairy  cake! "  said  one; 

"Grant  her  a  wish! "  said  three; 
"The  latest  wish  that  she  hath  wished," 

Said  all,  "whate'er  it  be! " 

Kind  Mabel  heard  the  words  they  spake. 

And  from  the  lonesome  glen 
Unto  the  good  old  grandmother 

Went  gladly  back  again. 

Thus  happened  it  to  Mabel 

On  that  Midsummer  Day; 
And  these  three  fairy  blessings 

She  took  with  her  away. 

'  Tis  good  to  make  all  duty  sweet, 

To  be  alert  and  kind; 
'  Tis  good,  like  little  Mabel, 

To  have  a  willing  mind. 

Mary  Howitt. 


222  THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

OEYVIND  AND  MARIT1 

I 

Oeyvind  was  his  name.  A  low,  barren 
cliff  overhung  the  house  in  which  he  was  born ; 
fir  and  birch  looked  down  on  the  roof,  and 
wild  cherry  strewed  flowers  over  it.  Upon 
this  roof  there  walked  about  a  little  goat, 
which  belonged  to  Oeyvind.  He  was  kept 
there  that  he  might  not  go  astray;  and 
Oeyvind  carried  leaves  and  grass  up  to  him. 
One  fine  day  the  goat  leaped  down,  and  away 
to  the  cliff;  he  went  straight  up,  and  came 
where  he  never  had  been  before. 

Oeyvind  did  not  see  him  when  he  came  out 
after  dinner,  and  thought  immediately  of  the 
fox.  He  grew  hot  all  over,  looked  around 
about,   and    called,    ' '  Killy-killy-killy-goat ! ' ' 

"  Bay-ay-ay, "  said  the  goat,  from  the  brow 
of  the  hill,  as  he  cocked  his  head  on  one  side 
and  looked  down. 

But  beside  the  goat  there  kneeled  a  little 
girl.     "Is  it  yours — this  goat? "  she  asked. 

Oeyvind  stood  with  eyes  and  mouth  wide 
open,  thrust  both  hands  into  the  breeches  he 
had  on,  and  asked,  "Who  are  you?" 

1  From  J.  G.  Whillier's  "Child  Life  in  Prose."     By  permission  of  the  pub- 
lishers, Houghton  Mifflin  Company. 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK  223 

"I  am  Marit,  mother's  little  one,  father's 
riddle,  the  elf  in  the  house,  granddaughter  of 
Ole  Nordistuen  of  the  Heide  farms,  four  years 
old  in  the  autumn,  two  days  after  the  frost 
nights,  I!" 

"Are  you  really?"  he  said,  and  drew  a  long 
breath,  which  he  had  not  dared  to  do  so  long 
as  she  was  speaking. 

"Is  it  yours,  this  goat?"  asked  the  girl 
again. 

"Ye-es,"  he  said,  and  looked  up. 

"I  have  taken  such  a  fancy  to  the  goat. 
You  will  not  give  it  to  me?" 

"No,  that  I  won't." 

She  lay  kicking  her  legs,  and  looking  down 
at  him,  and  then  she  said,  "But  if  I  give  you 
a  butter-cake  for  the  goat,  can  I  have  him 
then?" 

Oeyvind  came  of  poor  people,  and  had  eaten 
butter-cake  only  once  in  his  life;  that  was 
when  grandpa  came  there,  and  anything 
like  it  he  had  never  eaten  before  or  since. 
He  looked  up  at  the  girl.  "Let  me  see  the 
butter-cake  first, "  said  he. 

She  was  not  long  about  it,  and  took  out  a 
large   cake,   which   she    held   in    her  hand. 


224  THE   STORY   TELLER'S   BOOK 

"Here  it  is,"  she  said,  and  threw  it  down. 

"Ow,  it  went  to  pieces,"  said  the  boy.  He 
gathered  up  every  bit  with  the  utmost  care; 
he  could  not  help  tasting  the  very  smallest, 
and  that  was  so  good  he  had  to  taste  another, 
and,  before  he  knew  it  himself,  he  had  eaten 
up  the  whole  cake. 

"Now  the  goat  is  mine,"  said  the  girl. 

The  boy  stopped  with  the  last  bit  in  his 
mouth,  the  girl  lay  and  laughed,  and  the  goat 
stood  by  her  side,  with  white  breast  and  dark 
brown  hair,  looking  sideways  down. 

"  Could  you  not  wait  a  little  while?  "  begged 
the  boy;  his  heart  began  to  beat.  Then  the 
girl  laughed  still  more,  and  got  up  quickly  on 
her  knees. 

"  No,  the  goat  is  mine, "  she  said,  and  threw 
her  arms  round  its  neck,  loosened  one  of  her 
garters,  and  fastened  it  round.  Oeyvind 
looked  up.  She  got  up,  and  began  pulling 
at  the  goat.  It  would  not  follow,  but  twisted 
its  neck  downwards  to  where  Oeyvind  stood. 

"Bay-ay-ay,"  it  said. 

But  she  took  hold  of  its  hair  with  one  hand, 
pulled  the  string  with  the  other,  and  said 
gently,  "Come,  goat,  and  you  shall  go  into 


THE   STORY  TELLER'S   BOOK  225 

the  room  and  eat  out  of  mother's  dish  and 
my  apron."     And  then  she  sang: 

"Come,  boy's  goat, 
Come,  mother's  calf, 
Come,  mewing  cat 
In  snow-white  shoes. 
Come,  yellow  ducks, 
Come  out  of  your  hiding  place; 
Come,  little  chickens, 
Who  can  hardly  go; 
Come,  my  doves 
With  soft  feathers; 
See,  the  grass  is  wet, 
But  the  sun  does  you  good; 
And  early,  early  is  it  in  summer, 
But  call  for  the  autumn,  and  it  will  come." 

There  stood  the  boy. 

He  had  taken  care  of  the  goat  since  the 
winter  before,  when  it  was  born,  and  he  had 
never  imagined  he  could  lose  it;  but  now  it 
was  done  in  a  moment,  and  he  would  never 
see  it  again. 

His  mother  came  up  humming  from  the 
beach,  with  wooden  pans  which  she  had 
scoured;  she  saw  the  boy  sitting  with  his  legs 
crossed  under  him  on  the  grass,  crying  and 
she  went  up  to  him. 


226  THE   STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

"What  are  you  crying  about?" 

"Oh,  the  goat,  the  goat!" 

"Yes;  where  is  the  goat?"  asked  his 
mother,  looking  up  at  the  roof. 

"It  will  never  come  back  again,"  said  the 
boy. 

"Dear  me!     How  could  that  happen?" 

He  would  not  confess  immediately. 

"Has  the  fox  taken  it?" 

"Ah,  if  it  only  were  the  fox!" 

"Are  you  crazy?  "  said  his  mother.  "What 
has  become  of  the  goat?" 

"Oh-h-h,  I  happened  to — to — to  sell  it 
for  a  cake!" 

As  soon  as  lie  had  uttered  the  word,  he 
understood  what  it  was  to  sell  the  goat  for 
a  cake;  he  had  not  thought  of  it  before. 
His  mother  said: 

"What  do  you  suppose  the  little  goat 
thinks  of  you,  when  you  could  sell  him  for 
a  cake?" 

And  the  boy  thought  about  it,  and  felt 
sure  that  he  could  never  again  be  happy  in 
this  world,  and  not  even  in  heaven,  he  thought, 
afterwards.  He  felt  so  sorry  that  he  promised 
himself  never  again  to  do  anything  wrong, 


THE   STORY   TELLER'S   BOOK  227 


never  to  cut  the  thread  on  the  spinning 
wheel,  nor  let  the  goats  out,  nor  go  down  to 
the  sea  alone.  He  fell  asleep  where  he  lay, 
and  dreamed  about  the  goat,  that  he  had  gone 
to  heaven;  our  Lord  sat  there  with  a  great 
beard,  as  in  the  catechism,  and  the  goat  stood 
eating  the  leaves  off  a  shining  tree;  but 
Oeyvind  sat  alone  on  the  roof,  and  could 
not  come  up. 

Suddenly  there  came  something  wet  close 
up  to  his  ear,  and  he  started  up.  "  Bay-ay- 
ay  !"  it  said;  and  it  was  the  goat,  who  had 
come  back  again. 

"What!  have  you  got  back?" 

He  jumped  up,  took  it  by  the  two  forelegs, 
and  danced  with  it  as  if  it  were  a  brother;  he 
pulled  its  beard,  and  he  was  just  going  in  to 
his  mother  with  it,  when  he  heard  some  one 
behind  him,  and,  looking,  saw  the  girl  sitting 
on  the  greensward  by  his  side.  Now  he 
understood  it  all,  and  let  go  the  goat. 

"Is  it  you  who  have  come  with  it?" 

She  sat  tearing  the  grass  up  with  her  hands, 
and  said: 

"They  would  not  let  me  keep  it;  grand- 
father is  sitting  up  there,  waiting." 


228  THE   STORY  TELLER'S   BOOK 

While  the  boy  stood  looking  at  her,  he 
heard  a  sharp  voice  from  the  road  above  call 
out,  "Now!" 

Then  she  remembered  what  she  was  to  do ; 
she  rose,  went  over  to  Oeyvind,  put  one  of 
her  muddy  hands  into  his,  and,  turning  her 
face  away,  said: 

"I  beg  your  pardon!" 

But  then  her  courage  was  all  gone;  she 
threw  herself  over  the  goat,  and  wept. 

"I  think  you  had  better  keep  the  goat," 
said  Oeyvind,  looking  the  other  way. 

"Come,  make  haste!"  said  grandpapa,  up 
on  the  hill;  and  Marit  rose,  and  walked  with 
reluctant  feet  upwards. 

"You  are  not  forgetting  your  garter?" 
Oeyvind  called  after  her.  She  turned  around, 
and  looked  first  at  the  garter  and  then  at 
him.  At  last  she  came  to  a  great  resolution, 
and  said,  in  a  choked  voice: 

"You  may  keep  that. " 

He  went  over  to  her,  and,  taking  her  hand, 
said  : 

"Thank  you!" 

"Oh,  nothing  to  thank  for!"  she  answered, 
but  drew  a  long  sigh,  and  walked  on. 


THE   STORY  TELLER'S   BOOK  229 

He  sat  down  on  the  grass  again.  The 
goat  walked  about  near  him,  but  he  was  no 
longer  so  pleased  with  it  as  before. 

II 

The  goat  was  fastened  to  the  wall;  but 
Oeyvind  walked  about,  looking  up  at  the 
cliff.  His  mother  came  out  and  sat  down 
by  his  side;  he  wanted  to  hear  stories  about 
what  was  far  away,  for  now  the  goat  no 
longer  satisfied  him.  So  she  told  him  how 
once  everything  could  talk:  the  mountain 
talked  to  the  stream,  and  the  stream  to  the 
river,  the  river  to  the  sea,  and  the  sea  to  the 
sky;  but  then  he  asked  if  the  sky  did  not 
talk  to  any  one;  and  the  sky  talked  to  the 
clouds,  the  clouds  to  the  trees,  the  trees  to 
the  grass,  the  grass  to  the  flies,  the  flies  to 
the  animals,  the  animals  to  the  children,  the 
children  to  the  grown-up  people;  and  so 
it  went  on,  until  it  had  gone  round,  and  no 
one  could  tell  where  it  had  begun.  Oeyvind 
looked  at  the  mountain,  the  trees,  the  sky, 
and  had  never  really  seen  them  before.  The 
cat  came  out  at  that  moment,  and  lay  down 
on  the  stone  before  the  door  in  the  sunshine. 


23Q THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

"What  does  the  cat  say?"  asked  Oeyvind, 
pointing.     His  mother  sang: 

"At  evening  softly  shines  the  sun, 
The  cat  lies  lazy  on  the  stone. 
Two  small  mice, 
Cream,  thick  and  nice, 
Four  bits  of  fish, 
I  stole  behind  a  dish, 
And  am  so  lazy  and  tired, 
Because  so  well  I  have  fared, 

says  the  cat." 

But  then  came  the  cock,  with  all  the  hens. 
"What  does  the  cock  say?"  asked  Oeyvind, 
clapping  his  hands  together.  His  mother 
sang: 

"The  mother  hen  her  wings  doth  sink, 
The  cock  stands  on  one  leg  to  think: 
That  gray  goose 
Steers  high  her  course; 
But  sure  am  I  that  never  she 
As  clever  as  a  cock  can  be. 
Run  in,  you  hens,  keep  under  the  roof  to-day, 
For  the  sun  has  got  leave  to  stay  away, 

says  the  cock." 

But  the  little  birds  were  sitting  on  the 
ridgepole,  singing.  "What  do  the  birds 
say?"  asked  Oeyvind,  laughing. 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK  231 

"Dear  Lord,  how  pleasant  is  life, 
For  those  who  have  neither  toil  nor  strife, 

say  the  birds.' ' 

And  she  told  him  what  they  all  said,  down 
to  the  ant  who  crawled  in  the  moss,  and  the 
worm  who  worked  in  the  bark. 

That  same  summer,  one  day,  his  mother 
came  in  and  said  to  him,  "  To-morrow  school 
begins  and  -then  you  are  going  there  with 
me. 

Oeyvind  had  heard  that  school  was  a  place 
where  many  children  played  together,  and 
he  had  no  objection.  Indeed,  he  was  much 
pleased,  and  he  was  so  anxious  to  get  there, 
he  walked  faster  than  his  mother  up  over 
the  hills. 

When  he  came  in  there  sat  as  many  chil- 
dren around  a  table  as  he  had  ever  seen  at 
church.  Others  were  sitting  around  the  walls. 
They  all  looked  up  as  Oeyvind  and  his  mother 
entered,  and  as  he  was  going  to  find  a  seat 
they  all  wanted  to  make  room  for  him.  He 
looked  around  a  long  time  with  his  cap 
in  his  hand,  and  just  as  he  was  going  to 
sit  down  he  saw  close  beside  him,  sitting 
by  the    hearthstone,   Marit    of    the    many 


232  THE   STORY   TELLER'S   BOOK 

names.  She  had  covered  her  face  with  both 
hands,  and  sat  peeping  at  him  through  her 
fingers. 

"I  shall  sit  here/'  said  Oeyvind  quickly, 
seating  himself  at  her  side,  and  then  she 
laughed  and  he  laughed  too. 

"Is  it  always  like  this  here?"  he  whispered 
to  Marit. 

"Yes,  just  like  this;  I  have  a  goat  now,"  she 
said. 

"Have  you?" 

"Yes;  but  it  is  not  so  pretty  as  yours." 

"Why  don't  you  come  oftener  up  on  the 
cliff?"  said  he. 

"Grandpapa  is  afraid  I  shall  fall  over." 

"But  it  is  not  so  very  high." 

"Grandpapa  won't  let  me,  for  all  that." 

"Mother  knows  so  many  songs,"  said  he. 

"Grandpapa  does  too,  you  can  believe." 

"Yes,  but  he  does  not  know  what  mother 
does." 

"Grandpapa  knows  one  about  a  dance. 
Would  you  like  to  hear  it  ? " 

"Yes,  very  much." 

"Well,  then  you  must  come  farther  over 
here,  and  I  will  tell  it  to  you." 


THE   STORY  TELLER'S   BOOK  233 

He  changed  his  place,  and  then  she  recited 
a  little  piece  of  a  song  three  or  four  times  over 
so  that  the  little  boy  learned  it,  and  that  was 
the  first  he  learned  at  school. 

Then  the  children  sang,  and  Oeyvind  stood 
with  Marit  by  the  door.  All  the  children 
stood  with  folded  hands  and  sang.  Oeyvind 
and  Marit  also  folded  their  hands,  but  they 
could  not  sing.  And  that  was  the  first  day 
at  school. 

BjORNE    BjORNESON. 

THE  FAIRIES 

Up  the  airy  mountain, 

Down  the  rushy  glen, 
We  daren't  go  a-hunting, 

For  fear  of  little  men; 
Wee  folk,  good  folk, 

Trooping  all  together; 
Green  jacket,  red  cap, 

And  white  owl's  feather! 

Down  along  the  rocky  shore 

Some  make  their  home — 
They  live  on  crispy  pancakes 

Of  yellow  tide-foam ; 

14 


234  THE   STORY  TELLER'S   BOOK 

Some  in  the  reeds 

Of  the  black  mountain  lake, 
With  frogs  for  their  watchdogs, 

All  night  awake. 

High  on  the  hilltop 

The  old  king  sits; 
He  is  now  so  old  and  gray, 

He's  nigh  lost  his  wits. 
With  a  bridge  of  white  mist 

Columbkill  he  crosses 
On  his  stately  journeys 

From  Slieveleague  to  Rosses; 
Or  going  up  with  music 

On  cold,  starry  nights, 
To  sup  with  the  Queen 

Of  the  gay  Northern  Lights. 

They  stole  little  Bridget 

For  seven  years  long; 
When  she  came  down  again 

Her  friends  were  all  gone. 
They  took  her  lightly  back, 

Between  the  night  and  morrow; 
They  thought  that  she  was  fast  asleep, 

But  she  was  dead  with  sorrow. 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK  235 

They  have  kept  her  ever  since 

Deep  within  the  lake, 
On  a  bed  of  flag  leaves, 

Watching  till  she  wake. 

By  the  craggy  hillside, 

Through  the  mosses  bare, 
They  have  planted  thorn  trees 

For  pleasure  here  and  there. 
Is  any  man  so  daring 

As  dig  them  up  in  spite, 
He  shall  find  their  sharpest  thorns 

In  his  bed  at  night. 

Up  the  airy  mountain, 

Down  the  rushy  glen, 
We  daren't  go  a-hunting 

For  fear  of  little  men; 
Wee  folk,  good  folk, 

Trooping  all  together; 
Green  jacket,  red  cap, 

And  white  owl's  feather! 

William  Allingham. 


236  THE   STORY   TELLER'S   BOOK 

THE  HALF-CHICK1 

Once  upon  a  time  there  was  a  handsome 
black  Spanish  hen  who  had  a  brood  of  chick- 
ens. They  were  all  fine,  plump  little  birds 
except  the  youngest,  who  was  quite  unlike 
his  brothers  and  sisters.  This  one  looked  just 
as  if  he  had  been  cut  in  two.  He  had  only 
one  leg,  and  one  wing,  and  one  eye,  and  half 
a  head,  and  half  a  beak.  His  mother  shook 
her  head  sadly  as  she  looked  at  him  and  said  : 

"My  youngest  born  is  only  a  half -chick. " 
And  she  called  him  Medio  Pollito,  which  is 
Spanish  for  half-chick. 

Now,  though  Medio  Pollito  was  such  an 
odd  little  fellow,  he  had  a  roving  spirit  in 
spite  of  his  one  leg.  He  was  always  running 
away,  and  when  his  mother  called  him  to 
return  to  the  coop  he  pretended  that  he  could 
not  hear,  because  he  had  only  one  ear. 

When  she  took  the  whole  family  out  for 
a  walk  in  the  fields,  Medio  Pollito  would  hop 
away  by  himself  and  hide  in  the  corn.  As  he 
grew  older  he  grew  more  self-willed  and  dis- 
obedient,  and   was  often   very  rude   to  his 

1  From  the  Andrew  Lang  "Green  Fairy  Book,"  Longmans,  Green  &•  Co., 
New  York. 


THE   STORY  TELLER'S   BOOK  237 

mother  and  disagreeable  to  the  other  chickens. 

One  day  he  had  been  out  far  longer  than 
usual  in  the  fields.  On  his  return  he  strutted 
up  to  his  mother  with  the  little  hop  and  kick 
which  was  his  way  of  walking,  and,  cocking 
his  one  eye  at  her  in  a  very  bold  way,  he  said  : 

"Mother,  I  am  tired  of  life  in  this  dull 
farmyard.  I'm  off  to  Madrid  to  see  the 
king." 

"To  Madrid,  Medio  Pollito!,,  exclaimed 
his  mother.  "Why,  you  silly  chick,  you 
would  be  tired  out  before  you  had  gone  half 
the  distance.  No,  no,  stay  at  home  with 
your  mother,  and  some  day  when  you  are 
bigger  we  will  go  for  a  little  journey  together. ' ' 

But  Medio  Pollito  had  made  up  his  mind, 
and  off  he  would  go.  Scarcely  waiting  to 
say  good-by  to  his  family,  away  he  stumped 
down  the  highroad  that  led  to  Madrid. 

"Be  sure  that  you  are  kind  and  civil  to 
every  one  you  meet,"  called  his  mother, 
running  after  him;  but  he  was  in  such  a 
hurry  to  be  off  that  he  did  not  wait  to  answer 
her  or  even  to  look  back. 

A  little  later  in  the  day,  as  he  was  taking 
a  short  cut  through  a  field,  he  passed  a  stream. 


238  THE   STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

Now  the  stream  was  all  choked  up  and  over- 
grown with  weeds  and  water  plants,  so  that 
its  waters  could  not  flow  freely. 

"Oh!  Medio  Pollito,"  it  cried  as  the 
half-chick  hopped  along  its  banks,  "do  come 
and  help  me  by  clearing  away  these  weeds." 

"Help  you,  indeed!"  exclaimed  Medio 
Pollito,  tossing  his  head  and  shaking  the  few 
feathers  in  his  tail.  "Do  you  think  I  have 
nothing  to  do  but  to  waste  my  time  on  such 
trifles?  Help  yourself,  and  don't  trouble 
busy  travelers.  I  am  off  to  Madrid  to  see 
the  king,"  and  hoppity-kick,  hoppity-kick, 
away  stumped  Medio  Pollito. 

A  little  later  he  came  to  a  fire  that  had 
been  left  by  some  gypsies  in  a  wood.  It  was 
burning  very  low  and  would  soon  be  out. 

"Oh!  Medio  Pollito,"  cried  the  fire  in  a 
weak,  wavering  voice  as  the  half-chick  ap- 
proached, "in  a  few  minutes  I  shall  go  quite 
out  unless  you  put  some  sticks  and  dry  leaves 
upon  me.     Do  help  me,  or  I  shall  die!" 

"Help  you,  indeed!"  answered  Medio  Pol- 
lito. "I  have  other  things  to  do.  Gather 
sticks  for  yourself  and  don't  trouble  me. 
I  am  off  to  Madrid  to  see  the  king,"  and 


THE   STORY  TELLER'S   BOOK  239 

hoppity-kick,  hoppity-kick,  away  stumped 
Medio  Pollito. 

The  next  morning,  as  he  was  getting  near 
Madrid,  he  passed  a  large  chestnut  tree,  in 
whose  branches  the  wind  was  caught  and 
entangled. 

"Oh!  Medio  Pollito,"  called  the  wind, 
"do  hop  up  here  and  help  me  to  get  free  of 
these  branches.  I  cannot  come  away,  and 
it  is  so  uncomfortable." 

"It  is  your  own  fault  for  going  there," 
answered  Medio  Pollito.  "I  can't  waste  all 
my  morning  stopping  here  to  help  you.  Just 
shake  yourself  off,  and  don't  hinder  me,  for 
I  am  off  to  Madrid  to  see  the  king,"  and 
hoppity-kick,  hoppity-kick,  away  stumped 
Medio  Pollito  in  great  glee,  for  the  towers 
and  roofs  of  Madrid  were  now  in  sight. 

When  he  entered  the  town  he  saw  before 
him  a  great,  splendid  house,  with  soldiers 
standing  before  the  gates.  This  he  knew  must 
be  the  king's  palace,  and  he  determined  to 
hop  up  to  the  front  gate  and  wait  there  until 
the  king  came  out.  But  as  he  was  hopping 
past  one  of  the  back  windows  the  king's  cook 
saw  him. 


24o  THE   STORY  TELLER'S   BOOK 

"Here  is  the  very  thing  I  want,"  he 
exclaimed,  "for  the  king  has  just  sent  a 
message  to  say  that  he  must  have  chicken 
broth  for  his  dinner."  Opening  the  window, 
he  stretched  out  his  arm,  caught  Medio 
Pollito,  and  popped  him  into  the  broth  pot 
that  was  standing  near  the  fire. 

Oh!  how  wet  and  clammy  the  water  felt 
as  it  went  over  Medio  Pollito's  head,  making 
his  feathers  cling  to  him. 

"Water!  water!"  he  cried  in  his  despair, 
"do  have  pity  upon  me,  and  do  not  wet  me 
like  this." 

"Ah!  Medio  Pollito,"  replied  the  water, 
"you  would  not  help  me  when  I  was  a  little 
stream  away  in  the  field.  Now  I  cannot 
help  you." 

Then  the  fire  began  to  burn  and  scald 
Medio  Pollito,  and  he  danced  and  hopped 
from  one  side  of  the  pot  to  the  other,  trying 
to  get  away  from  the  heat  and  crying  out  in 
pain: 

"Fire!  fire!  do  not  scorch  me  like  this; 
you  can't  think  how  it  hurts." 

"Ah!  Medio  Pollito,"  answered  the  fire, 
"you  would  not  help  me  when  I  was  dying 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK  241 

away    in    the    wood.     Now    I    cannot    help 
you." 

At  last,  just  when  the  pain  was  so  great 
that  Medio  Pollito  thought  he  must  die,  the 
cook  lifted  up  the  lid  of  the  pot  to  see  if  the 
broth  was  ready  for  the  king's  dinner. 

"Look  here!"  he  cried  in  horror,  "this 
chicken  is  quite  useless.  It  is  burned  to  a 
cinder.  I  can't  send  it  up  to  the  royal 
table."  And,  opening  the  window,  he  threw 
Medio  Pollito  out  into  the  street.  But  the 
wind  caught  him  up  and  whirled  him  through 
the  air  so  quickly  that  Medio  Pollito  could 
scarcely  breathe,  and  his  heart  beat  against 
his  side  till  he  thought  it  would  break. 

'"Oh,  wind!"  at  last  he  gasped  out,  "if 
you  hurry  me  along  like  this  you  will  kill  me. 
Do  let  me  rest  a  moment,  or — " 

But  he  was  so  breathless  that  he  could  not 
finish  his  sentence. 

"Ah!  Medio  Pollito,"  replied  the  wind, 
"when  I  was  caught  in  the  branches  of  the 
chestnut  tree  you  would  not  help  me.  So 
now  I  cannot  help  you." 

And  he  swirled  Medio  Pollito  over  the 
roofs   of   the   houses   till   they   reached   the 


242        THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

highest  church  in  the  town,  and  there  he  left 

him,  fastened  to  the  top  of  the  steeple. 

And  there  stands  Medio  Pollito  to  this  day. 

And  if  you  go  to  Madrid  and  walk  through 

the  streets  till  you  come  to  the  highest  church, 

you  will  see  Medio  Pollito  perched  on  his  one 

leg  on  the  steeple,  with  his  one  wing  drooping 

at  his  side,  and  gazing  sadly  out  of  his  one 

eye  over  the  town. 

Adapted. 

THE  DISCONTENTED  TREE 
A  little  tree  stood  in  the  midst  of  a  forest. 
Instead  of  leaves,  it  was  covered  with  fine, 
sharp  needles,   which  pricked  the  fingers  if 
one  sought  to  gather  them. 

One  day  the  little  tree  said,  in  a  complain- 
ing way,  "All  of  my  comrades  have  beautiful 
leaves,  and  I  have  only  needles.  No  one 
comes  near  me;  all  pass  me  by.  If  I  could 
have  my  wish,  I  would  have  leaves  of  pure 
gold." 

When  night  came  the  little  tree  slept.  On 
waking  early  in  the  morning,  behold,  it  was 
clad  in  leaves  of  shining  gold!  Oh,  what  a 
splendid  appearance  it  made!  How  it  glis- 
tened in  the  sun! 


THE   STORY  TELLER'S   BOOK  243 

Then  the  little  tree  said :  "  Now  I  am  proud. 
No  other  tree  in  the  wood  has  golden  leaves. " 

But  as  evening  drew  nigh  an  old  man,  with 
a  long  beard,  came  walking  through  the 
wood,  carrying  a  heavy  sack  on  his  shoul- 
ders. When  he  saw  the  tree,  with  its 
brilliant,  glittering  foliage,  he  quickly  plucked 
the  golden  leaves,  one  by  one,  thrust  them 
into  his  sack,  and  hastened  away,  leaving  the 
tree  empty  and  shorn.  Then  the  poor  little 
tree  was  overcome  with  grief  and  vexation. 

"The  golden  leaves  have  only  been  a 
trouble  to  me.  How  ashamed  I  shall  be 
before  the  other  trees!  If  I  could  only  have 
another  wish,  I  would  wish  for  leaves  of  pure 
glass." 

The  little  tree  slept  again;  and  again,  on 
waking,  behold,  another  surprise!  All  the 
branches  were  rilled  with  lovely  glass  leaves! 
How  they  danced  in  the  sunbeams! 

"Ah!"  said  the  little  tree,  "now  I  am 
happy!  No  tree  in  the  woods  glitters  as  I 
do!" 

But  soon  there  arose  a  great  storm,  with  a 
mighty  wind,  which  came  rushing  through 
the  forest,  and  when  it  had  passed,  there  lay 


244  THE   STORY   TELLER'S   BOOK 

the  glass  leaves  shattered  and  broken  upon  the 
grass. 

Then  the  little  tree  said,  sorrowfully: 
"See,  now,  there  lie  my  beautiful  leaves  in 
the  dust,  and  the  other  trees  with  their  green 
leaves  stand  unharmed!  If  I  could  wish,  I 
would  have  green  leaves." 

Again  the  tree  slept,  and  in  the  morning 
it  was  clothed  in  green. 

Then  the  little  tree  laughed  aloud  and 
said:  "Now  I  have  leaves  like  the  others, 
and  have  no  cause  for  shame!" 

There  came  along  just  then  an  old  goat, 
looking  for  food  for  her  young.  She  saw  the 
little  tree,  and  in  a  twinkling  stripped  it  of 
all  its  leaves. 

Once  more  the  poor  little  tree  stood  for- 
lorn, with  its  empty  branches,  and  said: 
"I  will  wish  for  no  more  leaves,  neither 
green,  yellow,  nor  red.  If  I  had  only  my 
needles  back,  I  would    not   complain." 

Sorrowfully  the  little  tree  went  to  sleep, 
and  sorrowfully  it  waked.  Then  it  saw  itself 
in  the  bright  sunshine,  and  laughed,  and 
laughed,  and  all  the  trees  laughed  with  it; 
for  in  one  night  it  had  received  again  all  its 


THE   STORY  TELLER'S   BOOK  245 

needles.     Now  at  last  it  was  content,   and 
indulged   no   longer   in    foolish    wishes. 

THE  THREE  LITTLE  CHRISTMAS 
TREES    THAT    GREW    ON  THE  HILL1 

Once  there  were  three  fir  trees  growing  on 
a  hill.  One  was  tall  and  beautiful,  with  wide 
branches;  the  second  tree  was  not  quite  so 
tall,  but  it  was  growing  larger  every  day; 
the  third  was  only  a  little  tree,  but  it  was 
sturdy  and  strong,  and  it  hoped  some  day 
to  be  as  tall  as  its  brothers. 

The  summer  had  gone  and  the  maples  and 
oaks  and  birches  had  lost  their  leaves  long 
ago.  Now  the  ground  was  white  with  snow 
and  the  fir  trees  were  hoping  that  Santa 
Claus  would  soon  come  and  take  them  away 
to  be  Christmas  trees. 

One  day  a  little  bird  came  hopping  and 
fluttering  along  over  the  snow,  for  it  had 
hurt  its  wing  and  could  not  fly.  "  Oh,  please, 
big  fir  tree,"  said  the  little  bird,  "may  I 
rest  here  in  your  branches?  I  am  very  tired, 
and  I  'm  afraid  I  shall  freeze  out  here  in  the 
snow." 

1  From  "  The  Three  Little  Christmas  Trees,''  by  Mary  McDowell. 


246       THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

"No,"  said  the  fir  tree,  "I  can't  have 
any  little  birds  in  my  branches.  I  am  going 
to  be  a  Christmas  tree."  And  it  drew  its 
branches  proudly  away  from  the  shivering 
little  bird. 

The  little  bird  hopped  away  to  the  second 
tree  and  said:  "Oh,  please,  dear  tree,  may  I 
rest  in  ycur  branches?  My  wing  is  hurt. 
I  cannot  fly,  and  I  have  come  a  long  way 
over  the  snow." 

"No,"  said  the  tree,  "I  cannot  have  any 
little  birds  in  my  branches.  I  am  going  to 
be  a  Christmas  tree." 

So  the  little  bird  hopped  away  very  slowly 
to  the  smallest  tree.  It  was  almost  afraid  to 
ask  again,  but  the  night  was  coming,  so  the 
little  bird  said  very  softly,  "Please,  little  tree, 
may  I  rest  in  your  branches?  I  am  so  cold 
and  tired,  I  don't  think  I  can  go  any  farther." 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  the  little  tree,  "creep  up 
here  close  to  my  trunk  and  I  will  cover  you 
as  best  I  can  with  my  branches.  I  am  so  glad 
to  have  you  here." 

The  little  tree  stood  straight  and  still  in 
the  moonlight,  trying  its  best  to  shield  the 
little  bird  from  the  wind. 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 247 

Far  away  came  the  sound  of  silvery  bells, 
which  grew  nearer  and  nearer  until  there 
came  into  view  a  sleigh  drawn  by  reindeer. 
Straight  up  the  hill  it  came,  past  the  two 
big  trees  and  on  till  it  came  to  where  the 
little  tree  stood.  Out  jumped  the  driver, 
all  clad  in  fur.  "This  is  the  most  beautiful 
tree  in  all  the  wood,"  said  he.  "I  must 
have  it  for  my  Christmas  tree,"  and  he  took 
it  up  gently,  so  that  not  even  the  little  bird 
was  wakened. 

"And  this  little  bird  will  be  some  little 
child's  Christmas  present." 

And  into  his  sleigh  he  jumped  and  away 
they  flew  over  the  sparkling  snow. 

Adapted. 

THE  SNOW  BIRD'S  SONG 

The  ground  was  all  covered  with  snow  one 

day, 
And  two  little  sisters  were  busy  at  play, 
When  a  snow  bird  was  sitting  close  by  on  a 

tree, 
And  merrily  singing  his  chick-a-de-dee, 
Chick-a-de-dee,  chick-a-de-dee, 
And  merrily  singing  his  chick-a-de-dee. 


248  THE   STORY   TELLER'S   BOOK 

He  had  not  been  singing  his  tune  very  long 

Ere  Emily  heard  him,  so  loud  was  his  song; 

"Oh,  sister,  look  out  of  the  window,"  said  she; 

"Here's  a  dear  little  bird  singing  chick-a-de- 
dee, 
Chick-a-de-dee,  chick-a-de-dee, 
And  merrily  singing  his  chick-a-de-dee. 

"Oh,  mother,  do  get  him  some  stockings  and 

shoes, 
And  a  nice  little  frock,  and  a  hat,  if  he  choose; 
I  wish  he  'd  come  into  the  parlor  and  see 
How  warm  we  would  make  him,  poor  chick- 
a-de-dee, 
Chick-a-de-dee,  chick-a-de-dee, 
And  merrily  singing  his  chick-a-de-dee." 

"There  is  One,  my  dear  child,  though  I  cannot 

tell  who, 
Has  clothed  me  already,  and  warm  enough  too. 
Good  morning!  Oh,  who  are  as  happy  as  we?" 
And  away  he  went  singing  his  chick-a-de-dee, 
Chick-a-de-dee,  chick-a-de-dee, 
And  away   he   went   singing  his   chick-a- 
de-dee. 

F.  C.  Woodworth. 


THE   STORY   TELLER'S  BOOK  249 

THE    NIGHT    BEFORE    CHRISTMAS 

'Twas  the  night  before   Christmas,  and  all 

through  the  house 
Not  a  creature  was  stirring — not  even  a  mouse ; 
The  stockings  were  hung  by  the  chimney  with 

care, 
In  the  hope  that  St.  Nicholas  soon  would  be 

there. 
The  children  were  nestled  all  snug  in  their 

beds, 
While  visions  of  sugar-plums  danced  in  their 

heads; 


And  Mamma  in  her  kerchief,  and  I  in  my  cap, 
Had  just  settled  our  brains  for  a  long  winter's 

nap; 
When  out  on  the  lawn  there  arose  such  a 

clatter, 
I  sprang  from  the  bed  to  see  what  was  the 

matter. 
Away  to  the   window   I   flew  like   a  flash, 
Tore  open  the  shutters  and  threw  up  the  sash. 

The  moon  on  the  breast  of  the  new-fallen 
snow 

15 


250  THE   STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

Gave  the  luster  of  midday  to  objects  below — 
When  what  to  my  wondering  eyes   should 

appear 
But  a  miniature  sleigh  and  eight  tiny  rein- 
deer, 
With  a  little  old  driver,  so  lively  and  quick, 
I  knew  in  a  moment  it  must  be  St.  Nick. 

More  rapid  than  eagles  his  coursers  they  came, 
And  he  whistled  and  shouted  and  called  them 

by  name : 
"Now,  Dasher!  now,  Dancer!  now,  Prancer! 

now,  Vixen ! 
On,    Comet!     on,    Cupid!    on,    Dunder   and 

Blixen! 
To  the  top  of  the  porch,  to  the  top  of  the  wall ! 
Now,  dash  away !  dash  away !  dash  away  all ! ' ' 

As  dry  leaves  before  the  wild  hurricane  fly, 
When  they  meet  with  an  obstacle,  mount  to 

the  sky, 
So  up  to  the  housetop  the  coursers  they  flew, 
With  the  sleigh  full  of  toys,  and  St.  Nicholas 

too. 
And  then  in  a  twinkling  I  heard  on  the  roof 
The  prancing  and  pawing  of  each  tiny  hoof. 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK  251 

As   I   drew   in   my   head,    and   was   turning 

around, 
Down  the  chimney  St.  Nicholas  came  with 

a  bound. 
He  was  dressed  all  in  fur  from  his  head  to  his 

foot, 
And  his  clothes  were  all  tarnished  with  ashes 

and  soot; 
A  bundle  of  toys  he  had  flung  on  his  back, 
And  he  looked  like  a  peddler  just  opening 

his  pack. 

His  eyes — how  they  twinkled!   his  dimples — 

how  merry! 
His  cheeks  were  like  roses,  his  nose  like  a 

cherry; 
His  droll  little  mouth  was  drawn  up  in  a  bow, 
And  his  beard  on  his  chin  was  as  white  as 

the  snow; 
The  stump  of  a  pipe  he  held  tight  in  his  teeth, 
And  the  smoke,  it  encircled  his  head  like  a 

wreath. 

He  was  chubby  and  plump,  a  right  jolly  old 

elf, 
And  I  laughed  when  I  saw  him,  in  spite  of 

myself. 


252  THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

A  wink  of  his  eye  and  a  twist  of  his  head 
Soon  gave  me   to   know  I  had   nothing   to 
dread. 

He  spoke  not  a  word,  but  went  straight  to 

his  work, 
And  filled  all  the  stockings — then  turned  with 

a  jerk ; 
And  laying  his  finger  aside  of  his  nose, 
And  giving  a  nod,  up  the  chimney  he  rose. 

He  sprang  to  his  sleigh,  to  his  team  gave  a 

whistle, 
And  away  they  all  flew  like  the  down  of  a 

thistle ; 
But  I  heard  him  exclaim,  ere  he  drove  out 

of  sight : 

"  Merry  Christmas  to  all,  and  to  all  a  good 

night!" 

Clement  C.  Moore. 

SNOW-WHITE  AND   ROSE-RED 

A  poor  woman  once  lived  in  a  cottage  with 
a  garden  in  front  of  it  in  which  grew  two  rose 
trees,  one  bearing  white  roses  and  the  other 
red.     She  had  two  little  daughters  who  were 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK  253 

like  the  two  rose  trees;  one  was  called  Snow- 
White  and  the  other  Rose-Red.  Snow- White 
was  axuieter  and  more  gentle  than  Rose-Red. 
Rose-Red  loved  to  be  out  of  doors,  and  was 
always  dancing  and  singing.  Snow- White 
stayed  at  home  with  her  mother,  and  helped 
her  with  the  housework  or  read  with  her. 
But  they  were  the  sweetest  and  best  children 
in  the  world,  always  happy  and  industrious. 

They  loved  each  other  very  dearly,  and 
Snow- White  would  say,  "Rose-Red,  we  will 
always  be  together,"  and  Rose-Red  would 
reply,  "  Always,  Snow- White."  Whatever 
they  had  they  shared  with  each  other. 

They  often  went  into  the  woods,  gathering 
berries,  but  no  beast  of  the  forest  ever  hurt 
them.  Instead,  they  had  friends  among 
them  all.  The  rabbits  hopped  beside  them, 
the  squirrels  talked  to  them  from  over  their 
heads,  the  deer  grazed  beside  them,  the 
hare  would  eat  out  of  their  hands,  and  the 
birds  sang  to  them  as  they  passed,  and  never 
rlew  away,  for  the  children  never  frightened 
or  hurt  any  creature,  and  no  evil  ever  befell 
them.  If  they  remained  late  in  the  woods, 
and  night  overtook  them,  they  lay  down  on 


254  THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 


the  moss  and  slept  until  morning,  and  their 
mother  knew  they  were  quite  safe. 

Snow- White  and  Rose-Red  kept  their  moth- 
er's cottage  so  pretty  and  clean  that  it  would 
have  made  any  one  happy  to  see  it.  In  sum- 
mer Rose-Red  looked  after  the  house,  and 
every  morning  before  her  mother  awoke  she 
placed  a  red  rose  and  a  white  rose  by  her 
mother's  bedside.  In  winter  Snow- White 
lighted  the  fire  and  put  on  the  kettle,  which 
shone  in  the  light  like  gold.  In  the  evening 
the  mother  would  say,  "Snow- White,  close 
the  shutters,"  and  then  she  would  tell  them 
many  stories  while  the  little  girls  sat  by  the 
fire  and  listened  and  spun.  A  little  lamb 
belonged  to  Rose-Red  and  a  little  dove  to 
Snow- White.  The  lamb  would  lie  beside 
them,  and  the  dove  perch  behind  them  with 
its  head  under  its  wing. 

One  evening,  as  they  were  sitting  cozily 
together,  they  heard  a  sound  as  of  some  one 
knocking  or  pushing  the  door. 

"Rose-Red,"  said  her  mother,  "open  the 
door  quickly.  It  may  be  a  traveler  who  has 
lost  his  way." 

Rose-Red  hastened  to  open  the  door,  and 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK  255 

what  should  she  see  but  a  rough,  shaggy  bear 
pushing  his  black  head  through  the  doorway. 

Rose-Red  was  frightened  and  sprang  back, 
while  the  lamb  ran  to  her,  bleating,  the  dove 
flapped  its  wings  and  flew  to  its  perch,  and 
Snow- White  ran  to  her  mother. 

But  the  bear  spoke  to  them  and  said,  "Do 
not  be  afraid.  I  shall  not  hurt  you.  I  am 
only  a  poor,  cold  bear,  and  I  want  to  get 
warm  by  your  fire." 

"Poor  Bear,"  said  the  mother,  "come  in 
and  lie  down  by  the  fire,  but  don't  burn  your 
fur."  Then  she  spoke  to  the  children  and 
told  them  not  to  fear,  for  the  bear  would  not 
harm  them. 

So  Snow- White  and  Rose-Red  came  to  the 
fire  too,  and  the  lamb  and  the  dove  came 
back  with  them. 

The  bear  asked  the  children  to  get  the 
snow  out  of  his  fur,  so  they  brought  brooms 
and  had  great  fun  brushing  him  until  he  was 
dry.  Then  Bruin  lay  down  by  the  fire  and 
growled  with  happiness.  Soon  the  children 
began  to  play  with  him,  rolling  him  about,  and 
tugging  and  pulling  his  thick  fur  and  his  ears. 

The  bear  was  as  good-natured  as  possible, 


256        THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

and  liked  it  all,  but  if  they  played  too  long 
or  pulled  his  fur  too  hard  he  would  say,  "Oh, 
Snow-White  and  Rose-Red,  do  not  beat 
your  poor  bear  dead." 

When  it  was  time  to  say  good  night  the 
mother  said,  "Now,  good  Bear,  sleep  by  the 
fire.  This  house  will  shelter  you  from  cold 
and  storm." 

As  soon  as  the  morning  came  the  children 
opened  the  door  and  the  bear  trotted  away 
over  the  snow  into  the  wood.  After  this  the 
bear  came  every  evening  and  lay  by  the  fire, 
and  let  the  children  play  with  him,  and  they 
never  fastened  the  door  until  after  their  good 
black  friend  had  arrived. 

When  spring  came,  and  all  was  growing 
green  in  the  forest,  one  morning  the  bear  said 
to  Snow- White,  "I  must  go  away  now,  and 
will  not  return  until  the  summer  is  gone." 

"Where  are  you  doing,  dear  Bear?"  asked 
Snow- White. 

"I  must  go  to  the  woods  and  protect  my 
treasure  from  the  dwarfs.  When  the  earth 
is  frozen  in  winter  the  dwarfs  must  remain 
underground,  but  now  that  the  sun  is  warm, 
and  the  earth  is  soft,  and  all  other  things  are 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK  257 

pushing  upward,  they  find  their  way  upward 
too.  All  they  can  find  they  will  carry  off  to 
their  caves,  and  what  is  once  taken  is  not 
easily  recovered." 

Snow- White  was  sad  over  their  good  friend's 
departure,  but  she  unbarred  the  door  for 
him.  As  he  was  going  out  he  caught  his  fur 
in  the  latch  and  tore  away  a  bit  of  his  coat, 
and  through  the  hole  that  was  made,  Snow- 
White  thought  she  saw  something  glittering 
like  gold;  but  the  bear  trotted  off  quickly 
and  soon  disappeared  among  the  trees,  and 
she  could  not  be  sure  she  had  really  seen  it. 

Not  long  after  this  the  children  were  in 
the  forest  collecting  wood  for  their  fire. 
Presently  they  came  to  a  big  tree  trunk  which 
was  lying  on  the  ground,  and  near  it  in  the 
long  grass  they  saw  something  moving  and 
jumping.  As  they  drew  closer  they  saw  a 
tiny  brown  man  with  a  little  wizened  face 
and  a  beard  a  yard  long.  The  end  of  this 
beard  was  caught  in  a  cleft  of  the  tree  trunk, 
and  the  little  man  kept  jumping  about  like 
a  dog  tied  by  a  chain,  for  he  did  not  know 
how  to  free  himself. 

He  glared  at  the  children  with  his  red  eyes 


258  THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

and  screamed,  "Why  do  you  stand  there? 
Why  don't  you  help  me?" 

"What  were  you  doing,  little  man?"  asked 
Rose-Red. 

"You  stupid  bit  of  curiosity,"  said  the 
dwarf,  "I  wanted  to  split  the  tree  to  get 
some  chips  for  my  kitchen  fire,  and  just  as 
all  was  going  well  my  wedge  flew  out,  and  the 
crack  closed  so  quickly  it  caught  my  beautiful 
white  beard.  Now  I  am  stuck  fast  and  can't 
get  away,  and  you  stand  there  and  do  noth- 
ing. Oh,  you  silly  things!"  and  so  he 
screamed  and  scolded. 

The  children  used  all  their  strength,  but 
the  beard  was  wedged  in  so  firmly  they  could 
not  get  it  out. 

"I  will  bring  some  one  to  help  us,"  said 
Rose-Red. 

"Blockhead!"  snapped  the  dwarf.  "Why 
should  you  do  that?  There  are  too  many 
of  you  already.  Can't  you  think  of  some- 
thing better  than  that?" 

"You  are  so  impatient,"  said  Snow- White. 
"But  I  have  thought  of  something,"  and 
taking  out  her  scissors,  she  cut  the  end  of 
his  beard. 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK  259 

As  soon  as  the  dwarf  was  free  he  turned 
around  and,  dancing  with  rage,  scolded 
Snow- White  soundly  for  cutting  off  his  beard, 
and  then,  seizing  a  bag  of  gold  that  was  beside 
him  in  the  grass,  he  disappeared  without  so 
much  as  looking  at  the  children  again. 

A  few  days  after  this,  Snow- White  and 
Rose-Red  went  to  the  river  to  get  some  fish 
for  dinner.  As  they  came  near  the  stream 
they  saw  something  which  looked  like  an 
enormous  grasshopper  hopping  about  on  the 
bank  as  if  it  were  going  to  jump  into  the 
water.  They  ran  forward,  and  there  was 
the  little  brown  dwarf  again. 

"What  are  you  doing?"  cried  Rose-Red. 
"Surely  you  are  not  going  to  jump  into  the 
water?" 

"Stupid!"  cried  the  dwarf.  "Don't  you 
see  the  fish  that  is  dragging  me  in?" 

The  little  man  had  been  sitting  on  the  bank, 
fishing,  when  unfortunately  the  wind  had 
entangled  his  beard  in  the  line.  Just  then  a 
big  fish  had  taken  his  hook  and  he  could  not 
get  free  to  draw  the  line  out  of  the  water. 
The  fish  was  so  big  he  was  fast  pulling  the 
little  dwarf  into  the  stream. 


26o        THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 


Rose-Red  and  Snow- White  caught  hold  of 
him,  and  did  all  they  could  to  disentangle  his 
beard  from  the  line,  but  in  vain.  It  was 
twisted  in  a  hopeless  knot.  So  Snow- White 
again  pulled  her  scissors  from  her  pocket  and 
cut  the  beard  free. 

When  the  dwarf  saw  what  she  was  doing 
he  screamed,  "You  toadstools!  How  dare 
you  touch  my  beard?  It  was  not  enough 
that  you  shortened  it  before,  but  now,  for- 
sooth, you  must  cut  off  the  best  part  of  it. 
I  can't  appear  like  this  before  my  own  people! 
I  wish  you  had  had  the  manners  to  leave  one 
alone!"  Turning,  he  picked  up  a  bag  of 
pearls  hidden  among  the  rushes  beside  him, 
and  quickly  disappeared  behind  a  big  stone. 

Soon  after  this  it  happened  that  the  mother 
sent  the  two  girls  to  town  to  buy  some  thread, 
pins  and  needles,  and  a  bit  of  ribbon  for  her. 
Their  way  led  over  a  big  heath,  scattered  with 
huge  rocks.  As  they  were  crossing  this 
heath  they  saw  a  great  bird  over  their  heads, 
circling  in  the  air  but  always  coming  lower, 
until  it  settled  on  a  rock  near  by.  Almost  at 
once  they  heard  a  sharp,  piercing  cry,  and 
running  forward,  saw  the  great  bird  slowly 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK  261 

rising,  carrying  the  old  dwarf  in  his  claws. 
Quickly  they  seized  the  little  fellow,  and 
struggled  so  long  with  the  eagle  that  at  last 
he  let  go.  His  talons,  however,  had  been 
fastened  in  the  old  man's  beard  and,  in  free- 
ing him,  much  of  it  had  still  remained  in  the 
bird's  claws. 

When  the  dwarf  had  recovered  from  his 
fear  he  sat  down,  screaming,  "Oh,  my  beard, 
my  beard !     My  power  is  gone ! ' ' 

There  he  sat  with  his  head  in  his  hands, 
screaming,  and  then  the  girls  noticed  that 
all  around  them  were  strewn  shining  jewels 
and  golden  nuggets,  which  he  had  been 
counting  in  that  lonely  place  when  the  eagle 
had  pounced  upon  him. 

The  evening  sun  shone  on  the  stones,  and 
they  looked  so  beautiful  the  children  stood 
quite  still,  gazing  at  them.  Presently  the 
dwarf  looked  up  and  saw  them,  and  cried, 
"What  are  you  standing  there  gaping  for, 
you  clumsy  mugs?"  and  his  face  became 
scarlet  with  rage.  He  stooped  to  gather  up 
his  jewels,  and  was  about  to  go  off,  with  these 
angry  words,  when  a  sudden  growl  was  heard 
and  a  black  bear  trotted  out  of  the  wood. 


262  THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

The  dwarf  jumped  up  in  a  great  fright  to 
run  away,  but  he  had  not  time,  for  the  bear 
was  upon  him. 

Then  he  cried  in  terror,  "Dear  Bear,  spare 
me!  You  may  have  all  my  treasure!  Spare 
me !  Look  at  these  wicked  girls !  Take  them 
instead!" 

But  with  one  blow  the  bear  felled  the  evil 
little  creature,  and  that  was  the  end  of  him. 
Then  the  bear  called  to  Snow-White  and 
Rose-Red,  who  were  running  away,  and  said,' 
"Do  not  be  afraid.  I  am  your  friend."  As 
he  spoke,  they  recognized  his  voice,  and  what 
was  their  surprise,  as  they  looked  at  him,  to 
see  his  bear  skin  suddenly  fall  off.  Now  he 
stood  before  them  a  beautiful  young  prince, 
dressed  in  scarlet  and  gold. 

"I  am  a  king's  son,"  he  said,  "but  was 
doomed  by  that  little  dwarf,  my  enemy,  who 
had  stolen  my  treasure,  to  wander  in  these 
woods  as  a  wild  bear  until  his  death  should 
set  me  free.  His  power  was  gone  when  he 
lost  his  beard,  and  you  have  helped  to  give 
me  my  liberty." 

Snow-White  married  the  prince  and  Rose- 
Red  married  his  brother,  and  they  divided 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK  263 

between  them  the  great  treasure  the  dwarf 
had  gathered  in  his  cave.  The  mother  lived 
happily  with  her  children  for  many  years, 
and  the  two  rose  trees  that  had  stood  beside 
her  little  cottage  were  planted  below  her 
window  in  front  of  the  palace,  and  every 
year  they  blossomed  with  the  sweetest  and 
fairest  of  white  and  red  roses. 

Wilhelm  and  Jacob  Grimm. 

ONE -EYE,   TWO -EYES,   AND 
TPIREE-EYES 

There  were  once  three  sisters  who,  although 
they  were  of  one  blood,  differed  greatly  from* 
one  another.  The  youngest,  because  she  had 
only  one  eye,  and  that  in  the  middle  of  her 
forehead,  was  called  little  One-Eye;  the 
second  had  two  eyes,  just  like  every  one  else, 
and  was  called  little  Two-Eyes;  and  the 
eldest  sister  had  three  eyes,  so  every  one 
called  her  little  Three-Eyes. 

Little  One-Eye  and  little  Three-Eyes  were 
very  proud  because  they  were  not  like  other 
people,  and  they  would  have  nothing  to  do 
with  their  little  sister,  Two-Eyes.  She  must 
wear  the  clothes  which  they  had  discarded, 


264  THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

and  eat  the  scraps  of  food  that  were  left 
when  they  had  finished.  So  little  Two- 
Eyes  was  very  often  hungry  and  cold,  and 
she  shed  many  bitter  tears  while  watching 
her  goat  in  the  pasture. 

One  day,  as  she  sat  weeping  on  the  hillside, 
she  heard  a  kind  voice  say,  "  Why  are  you  so 
sorrowful,  little  Two-Eyes?" 

On  looking  up  she  saw  a  woman  standing 
beside  her.  "Why  should  I  not  weep,"  said 
little  Two-Eyes,  "when  my  sisters  are  so  un- 
kind to  me,  and  I  am  hungry  all  the  day  long?" 

"  Dry  your  eyes,  my  child,"  said  the  woman, 
"and  when  you  are  hungry  say  to  your  goat: 

'Little  goat,  bleat; 
Little  table,  be  spread!' 

and  you  shall,  have  food  to  your  liking. 
When  you  have  eaten  all  you  wish,  say  to 

the  goat: 

'Little  goat,  bleat; 
Little  table,  away ! ' 

and  it  will  disappear."  And  so  saying,  the 
woman  went  her  way. 

"There  is  no  time  like  the  present,"  said 
little  Two-Eyes.  "I  will  call  for  the  table 
now."     So  little  Two-Eyes  called, 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK  265 

"Little  goat,  bleat; 
Little  table,  be  spread!" 

and  instantly  there  rose  from  the  ground  a 
little  table  covered  with  a  white  cloth,  and 
with  plenty  of  food  spread  on  it.  Little 
Two-Eyes  said  grace,  and  ate  until  she  was 
satisfied.  Then  she  repeated,  as  the  woman 
had  told  her, 

"Little  goat,  bleat; 
Little  table,  away!" 

and  the  table  disappeared  as  quickly  as  it 
had  come. 

That  night  when  little  Two-Eyes  came 
home  she  did  not  touch  the  broken  food  that 
had  been  set  aside  for  her,  and  every  night 
it  was  the  same,  until  her  sisters  said,  "What 
is  the  matter  with  little  Two-Eyes  that  she 
does  not  eat  her  food?  Is  she  so  much  better 
than  we,  that  what  we  leave  is  not  good 
enough  for  her?" 

The  next  day  the  sisters  determined  that 
they  must  find  out  where  little  Two-Eyes 
got  her  food.  They  decided  that  little  One- 
Eye  should  go  with  her  sister  to  tend  the 
goat,  and  should  watch  all  that  happened. 
But    Two-Eyes    knew    their    thoughts    and, 


266  THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

taking  little  One-Eye  by  the  hand,  she  drove 
the  goat  into  the  long  grass.  She  bade  little 
One-Eye,  who  was  hot  and  tired  from  her 
long  walk,  lie  down  beside  her,  and  she  began 
to  sing, 

"Are  you  awake,  little  One-Eye? 
Are  you  asleep,  little  One-Eye? 
Awake?     Asleep?" 

until  One-Eye  became  more  and  more  drowsy, 
her  one  eye  closed,  and  she  fell  fast  asleep. 
Then  once  more  Two-Eyes  called, 

"Little  goat,  bleat; 
Little  table,  be  spread!" 

and  ate  her  dinner  as  before. 

That  night  when  they  returned  little  One- 
Eye  could  tell  her  sister  nothing  of  what  had 
happened.  "For,"  said  she,  " little  Two- 
Eyes  sang  to  me,  and  I  fell  asleep." 

"I  will  go  to  the  pasture  to-morrow,"  said 
little  Three-Eyes,  "and  I  will  keep  better 
watch." 

In  the  morning  she  went  to  little  Two- 
Eyes  and  said,  "I  will  go  with  you  to  the 
pasture  to-day,  and  see  that  the  goat  has 
proper  care." 

"Very  well,"  said  little  Two-Eyes,  and  she 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK  267 

led  her  sister  by  the  hand  as  she  had  done 
the  day  before.  She  drove  the  goat  into  the 
tall  grass  and,  sitting  down  beside  her  sister, 
she  began  to  sing, 

"Are  you  asleep,  little  Three-Eyes? 
Are  you  awake,  little  Two-Eyes?" 

Now  she  should  have  said,  "  Are  you  awake, 
little  Three-Eyes?"  for  the  two  eyes  went  to 
sleep  but  the  third  eye  did  not,  though 
Three-Eyes  closed  the  lid,  like  the  others. 
Though  she  appeared  to  be  sleeping,  she  saw 
all  that  was  going  on. 

When  she  thought  her  sister  had  gone  to 
sleep  little  Two-Eyes  called, 

"Little  goat,  bleat; 
Little  table,  be  spread!" 

and  ate  and  drank  as  before.  When  she  had 
finished  she  called, 

"Little  goat,  bleat; 
Little  table,  away!" 

and  it  sank  out  of  sight. 

Then,  calling  little  Three-Eyes,  she  said, 
"Wake  up,  little  Three-Eyes.  While  you 
are  sleeping  the  goat  might  wander  all  over 
the  world!" 


268        THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

Little  Three-Eyes  opened  her  eyes,  and 
followed  her  sister  home.  Running  to  One- 
Eye,  she  said,  "I  know  why  little  Two-Eyes 
will  not  eat  the  food  we  give  her.  When 
we  came  to  the  pasture  she  sang  a  song  to 
put  me  to  sleep,  but  only  two  of  my  eyes 
slept.  With  the  other  I  watched  all  that 
happened.  When  she  thought  I  was  asleep, 
little  Two- Eyes  called, 

"Little  goat,  bleat; 
Little  table,  be  spread!" 

and  up  rose  a  little  table  from  the  ground, 
covered  with  a  white  cloth,  and  all  manner 
of  rich  food  was  served,  much  better  than 
the  poor  fare  we  have.  No  wonder  little 
Two-Eyes  will  not  eat  the  food  we  give  her!/' 

Then  the  sisters  were  very  angry,  and  said, 
"We  will  see  if  little  Two-Eyes  shall  fare  so 
much  better  than  we!"  And  they  went  out 
and  killed  the  goat. 

Little  Two-Eyes  begged  them  to  spare  her 
little  goat,  but  when  they  would  not,  she  ran 
away  to  the  pasture,  and,  throwing  herself 
down  in  the  grass,  she  cried  bitterly.  As 
she  lay  there  she  heard  a  kind  voice,  saying, 
"Why  do   you  weep,  my    child?"     Looking 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK  269 

up  she  saw  the  same  good  friend  who  had 
helped  her  before. 

"And.  why  should  I  not  weep,  when  they 
have  killed  my  little  goat?"  said  Two-Eyes, 
hiding  her  face  again. 

"Dry  your  eyes,"  said  her  friend.  "Go 
home,  and  ask  your  sisters  to  give  you  the 
heart  of  your  goat.  Bury  this  in  the  garden 
in  front  of  the  house,  but  take  care  that  no 
one  sees  you,  and  it  shall  be  well  with  you." 

Little  Two-Eyes  ran  home  to  her  sisters 
and  said,  "Please  give  me  the  heart  of  my 
goat,  that  I  may  have  it  for  my  own." 

"Oh,  if  that  is  all  you  want,  you  may  have 
it,"  said  the  sisters. 

Two-Eyes  took  the  heart  of  the  goat  and 
after  nightfall  buried  it  in  the  garden  as  she 
had  been  told.  In  the  morning,  when  the 
other  sisters  ran  to  the  garden,  there  stood 
a  beautiful  tree  covered  with  silver  leaves 
and  golden  fruit.  Little  One-Eye  and  little 
Three-Eyes  were  delighted  with  it,  and 
claimed  it  as  their  own. 

"I  will  climb  up,"  said  little  One-Eye, 
"and  gather  some  of  the  beautiful  fruit." 
But  try  as  she  might,  not  one  of  the  golden 


270  THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

apples  could  she  pick.  As  soon  as  her  hand 
reached  for  them,  the  branch  sprang  away 
from  her. 

"Let  me  try,"  said  Three-Eyes.  "I  am 
sure,  with  my  three  eyes  to  help  me,  I  can 
gather  the  apples."  But  it  was  the  same 
with  her  as  with  her  sister — the  apples  al- 
ways hung  just  beyond  her  reach,  until  at  last 
she  was  obliged  to  come  down,  empty  handed. 

Then  little  Two-Eyes  climbed  the  tree, 
and  soon  had  her  hands  full  of  the  beautiful 
fruit.  This  made  her  sisters  all  the  more 
angry,  but  they  said,  "No  one  will  know  that 
we  cannot  pick  the  fruit,  and  our  tree  will 
always  be  admired." 

While  the  three  sisters  were  standing  under 
the  tree,  a  prince  came  riding  along  the  high- 
way. One-Eye  and  Three-Eyes  pushed  Two- 
Eyes  under  a  cask  which  was  lying  near,  and 
thrust  after  her  the  golden  apples  with  which 
she  had  been  playing. 

"What  a  beautiful  tree  this  is!"  said  the 
prince  as  he  drew  near.  '  To  whom  does 
it  belong?" 

"It  is  our  tree!"  said  One-Eye  and  Three- 
Eyes  in  the  same  breath. 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK  271 

"Whoever  will  give  me  one  of  the  golden 
apples  shall  have  granted  whatever  favor 
he  may  ask  of  me,"  said  the  prince. 

At  this,  One-Eye  and  Three-Eyes  climbed 
into  the  tree,  but  for  all  their  efforts  not  an 
apple  nor  a  leaf  could  they  pick. 

"If  the  tree  is  yours,"  said  the  prince,  "it 
is  strange  you  cannot  pick  the  fruit!" 

When  she  heard  this,  Two-Eyes  rolled  one 
of  the  golden  apples  out  from  under  the  cask. 

"Who  is  under  the  cask?"  said  the  prince. 

"Oh,  it  is  only  our  sister,  Two-Eyes,"  said 
the  sisters.  "She  is  such  a  common  little 
thing  that  we  hid  her  when  we  saw  you 
coming." 

"Let  her  come  out,"  said  the  prince. 

Then  little  Two-Eyes  crept  out. 

"Will  you  give  me  one  of  your  beautiful 
apples?"  said  the  prince. 

"That  I  will,"  said  little  Two-Eyes,  and, 
climbing  into  the  tree,  she  quickly  broke  off 
a  branch  and  gave  it  to  him. 

As  he  took  it  from  her  he  looked  into  her 
face,  and  seeing  how  sweet  and  gentle  she  was 
he  said,  "Grant  me  a  favor,  little  Two-Eyes. 
Come  ^with    me    to   my  palace,   and    there 


272        THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

my  father  and  my  mother  will  care  for  you. " 
Then  little  Two-Eyes  gave  the  prince  her 
hand,  and  he  lifted  her  to  his  horse  and  rode 
away  to  his  father's  castle.  There  she  grew 
so  fair  and  gracious  that  every  one  loved  her, 
but  most  of  all  the  prince. 

One  day  there  was  a  grand  wedding  in  the 
castle,  when  little  Two-Eyes  married  the 
prince,  and  they  lived  there  very  happily 
all  their  days. 

Wilhelm  and  Jacob  Grimm. 

THE   HUT   IN   THE   FOREST 

There  was  once  a  poor  woodcutter  who 
lived  with  his  wife  and  his  three  daughters 
on  the  edge  of  a  great  forest. 

One  morning  when  the  woodcutter  started 
out  for  his  work  he  said  to  his  wife,  "In 
order  that  I  may  not  lose  any  time  from  my 
work,  you  may  send  my  dinner  to  me  by  our 
eldest  daughter.  I  will  scatter  some  grain 
along  the  path  that  she  may  know  the  way 
I  have  taken." 

So  when  the  sun  was  high  in  the  heavens 
the  maiden  set  out,  carrying  her  father's 
dinner.     But  she  had  not  gone  far  into  the 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK  273 

forest  before  she  lost  her  way,  for  the  spar- 
rows and  the  thrushes  had  long  since  picked 
up  the  grain  her  father  had  scattered. 

She  wandered  on  and  on,  until  the  sun 
had  set  and  the  long  shadows  stretched  across 
her  path.  The  owls  hooted,  and  the  girl 
began  to  be  afraid  in  the  darkness. 

At  last  she  saw  a  light  shining  through  the 
trees,  and  she  said,  "  Surely  some  one  must 
live  there  who  will  let  me  come  in  for  the  night, 
and  I  can  find  my  way  home  in  the  morning.' ' 
She  ran  forward  until  she  came  to  a  little  hut, 
from  whose  window  the  light  was  streaming. 

The  girl  knocked  at  the  door,  and  a  voice 
called,  "Come  in." 

When  she  opened  the  door  she  saw  an  old 
man  sitting  at  a  table,  his  head  resting  on 
his  hand  and  his  white  beard  falling  almost 
to  his  feet.  By  the  fire  were  gathered  a 
cock,  a  hen,  and  a  brindled  cow. 

The  girl  told  the  old  man  her  story  and 
begged  for  a  night's  shelter.  The  old  man 
turned  to  his  three  friends,  and  said, 


'  Pretty  hen,  pretty  cock, 
And  pretty  brindled  cow, 
What  say  you?" 


274  THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

They  said  "Cluck,"  and  nodded  their 
heads  in  assent. 

"Here  is  abundance,"  said  the  old  man. 
"You  may  stay,  and  welcome,  if  you  will 
prepare  our  evening  meal." 

This  the  maid  was  very  glad  to  do.  She 
cooked  the  food  and  spread  the  table,  and 
then  drew  up  her  chair  opposite  the  old  man 
and  ate  until  she  was  satisfied.  When  she 
had  cleared  away  the  meal  she  said,  "Now 
where  can  I  find  a  place  to  sleep?" 

The  animals  replied, 

"You  have  eaten, 
You  have  drunk; 
You  have  had  no  thought  for  us, 
So  find  out  for  yourself  where  you  can  sleep." 

"Go  upstairs  to  the  loft,"  said  the  old  man, 
"and  you  will  find  a  bed.  Shake  it  up  and 
put  fresh  linen  on  it.     You  may  sleep  there." 

So  the  maid  did  as  she  was  bid,  and  when 
she  had  made  the  bed  she  laid  herself  down 
and  soon  fell  asleep. 

After  awhile  the  old  man  came  with  his 
candle,  looked  at  the  girl  as  she  lay  sleeping, 
and,  shaking  his  head  in  sorrow,  he  touched 
the  bed  and  it  disappeared. 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK  275 

Late  that  night  the  woodcutter  returned  to 
his  house.  He  reproached  his  wife  that  she 
had  let  him  go  hungry  all  the  day  long. 

"I  am  not  to  blame,"  said  the  wife.  "Our 
daughter  started  with  your  dinner  in  plenty 
of  time.  She  must  have  lost  her  way  in  the 
forest;  but  surely  she  will  return  in  the 
morning." 

The  next  day  the  woodcutter  said  his  sec- 
ond daughter  must  bring  him  his  noonday 
meal.  ' '  I  will  scatter  lentils, ' '  said  he.  ' '  They 
will  be  more  readily  seen  than  the  grain." 

At  noontime  the  second  daughter  started 
out,  carrying  her  father's  dinner;  but  the 
birds  of  the  air  had  long  before  eaten  the 
lentils,  and  there  remained  nothing  to  show 
the  girl  which  path  her  father  had  taken. 

She  strayed  farther  and  farther  into  the 
wood,  until  the  sun  had  set,  and  there  were 
only  the  night  sounds  to  be  heard  and  the 
light  of  the  twinkling  stars  to  guide  her. 

So  the  poor  girl  wandered  on,  until  she  saw 
the  light  streaming  through  the  window  of 
the  hut.  She  knocked,  and  was  admitted  as 
her  sister  had  been.  The  old  man  asked  his 
animals  as  before, 


276        THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

"Pretty  hen,  pretty  cock, 
And  pretty  brindled  cow, 

What  say  you?" 

The  animals  said  "Cluck,"  and  all  happened 
as  before.  The  girl  prepared  the  meal  and 
ate  and  drank;  but  she  gave  no  thought  to 
the  animals.  When  she  asked  for  a  place  to 
sleep,  they  said, 

"You  have  eaten, 
And  you  have  drunk, 
And  have  given  no  thought  to  us; 
Still,  you  may  pass  the  night  here." 

When  she  had  gone  to  sleep  the  old  man 
came  and  looked  at  her,  and,  shaking  his  head 
sadly,  he  touched  the  bed  and  it  disappeared 
as  before. 

On  the  third  morning  the  woodcutter  told 
his  wife  that  his  youngest  daughter  must 
bring  him  his  dinner.  But  the  mother  pro- 
tested. "  Shall  I  lose  my  last  child,  too?" 
said  she. 

But  the  father  replied,  "She  is  a  good 
child,  and  wiser  than  her  sisters.  Surely 
she  can  find  her  way.  I  will  scatter  peas 
this  morning.  They  are  so  large  she  will 
have  no  difficulty  in  following  them." 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK  277 

So  the  youngest  daughter  set  off  at  mid- 
day as  her  sisters  had  done.  But  the  wood 
pigeons  had  eaten  the  peas  before  the  sun 
was  an  hour  high.  The  girl  looked  anxiously 
to  either  side,  but  no  trace  of  her  father 
could  she  see. 

At  length  the  sun  set,  and  darkness  came 
down  over  the  forest.  The  child  stumbled  on 
until  she  saw  the  light  streaming  from  the 
hut.  Knocking  at  the  door,  and  following 
the  command  to  enter,  she  begged  very 
courteously  to  be  allowed  to  remain.  The 
old  man  turned  to  his  companions,  and  said, 

"Pretty  hen,  pretty  cock, 
And  pretty  brindled  cow, 
What  say  you?" 

The  animals  replied  as  before,  "  Cluck.' ' 
The  child  smoothed  the  feathers  of  the 
cock  and  hen,  and  stroked  the  brindled  cow 
on  her  forehead,  then  set  to  work  to  prepare 
the  evening  meal.  When  she  had  set  it, 
smoking  hot,  before  the  old  man,  she  said, 
"Oh,  you  poor  hungry  creatures,  you  must 
be  cared  for,  too." 

So  she  scattered  corn  for  the  cock  and  hen, 
and  brought  in  a  great  armful  of  hay  for  the 


278        THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

brindled  cow,  and  a  pailful  of  water  that 
they  all  might  drink.  Having  done  this,  she 
sat  down  and  ate  what  the  old  man  had  left 
for  her. 

After  a  time  the  cock  and  the  hen  tucked 
their  heads  under  their  wings  and  the  brindled 
cow  closed  her  eyes. 

"Shall  we  not  take  our  rest,  too?"  said 
the  maiden. 

The  old  man  asked  as  before, 

"Pretty  hen,  pretty  cock, 
Pretty  brindled  cow, 
What  say  you  to  that?" 

"Cluck,  cluck,"  they  replied  sleepily,  as 
though  they  would  say, 

"You  have  eaten  with  us, 
You  have  drunk  with  us; 
We  wish  you  a  very  good  night." 

Then  the  maiden  went  up  the  stairs,  shook 
up  the  feather  bed  and  placed  clean  linen 
upon  it,  and  after  saying  her  prayers  she  lay 
down  and  was  soon  fast  asleep. 

In  the  middle  of  the  night  the  maiden  was 
awakened  by  a  terrific  upheaval.  It  seemed 
to  her  that  the  foundations  were  shaking  and 
the  timbers  were  rent  apart.     The  roof  seemed 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK  279 

to  crash  in  over  her  head.  Then  all  was 
quiet,  and  as  the  girl  was  unharmed  she  soon 
fell  asleep  again. 

In  the  morning,  when  she  opened  her  eyes, 
she  gazed  around  her  in  wonder.  The  old 
hut  had  disappeared,  and  she  lay  in  the  bed 
chamber  of  a  palace.  Golden  flowers  blos- 
somed on  the  silken  draperies,  a  crimson 
canopy  hung  over  her  head,  and  the  bed 
coverings  were  of  the  softest  down.  The 
little  maid  thought  it  must  be  a  dream;  but 
presently  there  entered  three  servants  to 
receive  her  orders  for  the  day. 

" Please  leave  me,"  said  the  maiden.  "I 
must  dress  quickly  and  prepare  the  kind  old 
man's  breakfast.  And  then  I  must  feed  the 
cock  and  the  hen  and  the  brindled  cow." 

When  she  was  dressed  she  ran  quickly 
down  the  great  stairway  and  out  into  the 
sunshine  to  see  if  she  was  really  awake.  But 
there  behind  her  she  saw  the  beautiful 
palace  with  its  towers  pointing  to  the  blue 
sky. 

As  she  looked,  from  the  palace  door  came 
a  noble  young  prince,  dressed  all  in  white 
and  gold.     He  looked  so  brave  and  gentle 


280  THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

that  she  wished  to  look  at  him  always.  He 
came  toward  her  and,  taking  her  hand,  he 
said,  "I  am  a  king's  son,  who  was  changed 
by  a  cruel  magician  and  compelled  to  live  in 
the  hut  in  the  forest,  with  my  three  servants, 
who  were  given  the  forms  of  the  cock,  the 
hen,  and  the  brindled  cow,  until  a  maiden 
should  come  who  would  be  as  thoughtful 
for  the  poor  dumb  beasts  as  she  was  of  me. 
Last  night  at  midnight  the  spell  was  ended, 
and  the  hut  has  once  more  become  my  royal 
palace." 

So  saying,  the  prince  took  her  hand,  and, 
calling  his  attendants,  told  them  to  bring 
the  woodcutter  and  his  wife  to  the  palace 
to  be  present  at  the  wedding  feast. 

"But  where  are  my  two  sisters?"  asked 
the  maiden. 

"They  are  locked  in  the  cellar,"  replied 
the  prince,  "where  they  shall  remain  until 
to-morrow  morning.  Then  they  will  be  taken 
into  the  forest,  where  they  must  work  for  the 
charcoal  burners  until  they  have  learned  to 
be  kinder  to  the  poor  dumb  creatures  about 
them." 

Wilhelm  and  Jacob  Grimm 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK  281 


THE   GREEDY   SHEPHERD 


Once  upon  a  time  there  lived  in  the  south 
country  two  brothers,  whose  business  it  was 
to  keep  sheep  on  a  great  grassy  plain,  which 
was  bounded  on  the  one  side  by  a  forest  and 
on  the  other  by  a  chain  of  high  hills.  No 
one  lived  on  that  plain  but  shepherds,  who 
dwelt  in  low  cottages  thatched  with  heath, 
and  watched  their  sheep  so  carefully  that  no 
lamb  was  ever  lost,  nor  had  one  of  the  shep- 
herds ever  traveled  beyond  the  foot  of  the 
hills  and  the  skirts  of  the  forest. 

There  were  none  among  them  more  careful 
than  these  two  brothers,  one  of  whom  was 
called  Clutch,  and  the  other  Kind.  Though 
brethren  born,  two  men  of  distant  countries 
could  not  be  more  unlike  in  disposition. 
Clutch  thought  of  nothing  in  this  world  but 
how  to  catch  and  keep  some  profit  for  him- 
self, while  Kind  would  have  shared  his  last 
morsel  with  a  hungry  dog.  This  covetous 
mind  made  Clutch  keep  all  his  father's  sheep 
when  the  old  man  was  dead  and  gone,  be- 
cause he  was  the  elder  brother,  allowing  Kind 


282  THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

nothing  but  the  place  of  a  servant  to  help 
him  in  looking  after  them.  Kind  wouldn't 
quarrel  with  his  brother  for  the  sake  of  the 
sheep,  so  he  helped  him  to  keep  them,  and 
Clutch  had  all  his  own  way.  This  made  him 
agreeable.  For  some  time  the  brothers  lived 
peaceably  in  their  father's  cottage,  which 
stood  low  and  lonely  under  the  shadow  of  a 
great  sycamore  tree,  and  kept  their  flock  with 
pipe  and  crook  on  the  grassy  plain,  till  new 
troubles  arose  through  Clutch's  covetousness. 

On  that  plain  there  was  neither  town,  nor 
city,  nor  market  place,  where  people  might 
sell  or  buy,  but  the  shepherds  cared  little  for 
trade.  The  wool  of  their  flocks  made  them 
clothes;  their  milk  gave  them  butter  and 
cheese.  At  feast  times  every  family  killed  a 
lamb  or  so;  their  fields  yielded  them  wheat 
for  bread.  The  forest  supplied  them  with 
firewood  for  winter;  and  every  midsummer, 
which  is  the  sheep-shearing  time,  traders  from 
a  certain  far-off  city  came  through  it  by  an 
ancient  way  to  purchase  all  the  wool  the 
shepherds  could  spare,  and  give  them  in  ex- 
change either  goods  or  money. 

One  midsummer  it  so  happened  that  these 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK  283 

traders  praised  the  wool  of  Clutch's  flock 
above  all  they  found  on  the  plain,  and  gave 
him  the  highest  price  for  it.  That  was  an 
unlucky  happening  for  the  sheep:  from 
thenceforth  Clutch  thought  he  could  never 
get  enough  wool  off  them.  At  the  shearing 
time  nobody  clipped  so  close,  and,  in  spite  of 
all  Kind  could  do  or  say,  he  left  the  poor 
sheep  as  bare  as  if  they  had  been  shaven ;  and 
as  soon  as  the  wool  grew  long  enough  to  keep 
them  warm,  he  was  ready  with  the  shears 
again — no  matter  how  chilly  might  be  the 
days  or  how  near  the  winter.  Kind  didn't 
like  these  doings,  and  many  a  debate  they 
caused  between  him  and  his  brother.  Clutch 
always  tried  to  persuade  him  that  close  clip- 
ping was  good  for  the  sheep,  and  Kind  always 
strove  to  make  him  think  he  had  got  all 
the  wool — so  they  were  never  done  with 
disputes.  Still  Clutch  sold  the  wool,  and 
stored  up  his  profits,  and  one  midsummer 
after  another  passed.  The  shepherds  began 
to  think  him  a  rich  man,  and  close  clipping 
might  hav£  become  the  fashion,  but  for  a 
strange  thing  which  happened  to  his  flock. 
The  wool  had  grown  well    that    summer. 


284  THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

He  had  taken  two  crops  off  them,  and  was 
thinking  of  a  third, — though  the  misty  morn- 
ings of  autumn  were  come,  and  the  cold 
evenings  made  the  shepherds  put  on  their 
winter  cloaks, — when  first  the  lambs,  and 
then  the  ewes,  began  to  stray  away;  and 
search  as  the  brothers  would,  none  of  them 
was  ever  found  again.  Clutch  blamed  Kind 
with  being  careless,  and  watched  with  all  his 
might.  Kind  knew  it  was  not  his  fault,  but 
he  looked  sharper  than  ever.  Still  the  stray- 
ing went  on.  The  flocks  grew  smaller  every 
day,  and  all  the  brothers  could  find  out  was, 
that  the  closest  clipped  were  the  first  to  go; 
and,  count  the  flock  when  they  might,  some 
were  sure  to  be  missed  at  the  folding. 

Kind  grew  tired  of  watching,  and  Clutch 
lost  his  sleep  with  vexation.  The  other 
shepherds,  over  whom  he  had  boasted  of  his 
wool  and  his  profits,  were  not  sorry  to  see 
pride  having  a  fall.  Most  of  them  pitied 
Kind,  but  all  of  them  agreed  that  they  had 
marvelous  ill  luck,  and  kept  as  far  from  them 
as  they  could  for  fear  of  sharing  it.  Still 
the  flock  melted  away  as  the  months  wore 
on.     Storms  and  cold  weather  never  stopped 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK  285 

them  from  straying,  and  when  the  spring 
came  back  nothing  remained  with  Clutch 
and  Kind  but  three  old  ewes,  the  quietest 
and  lamest  of  their  whole  flock.  They  were 
watching  these  ewes  one  evening  in  the 
primrose  time,  when  Clutch,  who  had  never 
kept  his  eyes  off  them  that  day,  said  — 

1 '  Brother,  there  is  wool  to  be  had  on  their 
backs." 

"It  is  too  little  to  keep  them  warm,"  said 
Kind.  "The  east  wind  still  blows  some- 
times"; but  Clutch  was  off  to  the  cottage  for 
the  bag  and  shears. 

Kind  was  grieved  to  see  his  brother  so 
covetous,  and  to  divert  his  mind  he  looked 
up  at  the  great  hills:  it  was  a  sort  of  comfort 
to  him,  ever  since  their  losses  began,  to  look 
at  them  evening  and  morning.  Now  their 
far-off  heights  were  growing  crimson  with  the 
setting  sun,  but  as  he  looked,  three  creatures 
like  sheep  scoured  up  a  cleft  in  one  of  them 
as  fleet  as  any  deer:  and  when  Kind  turned, 
he  saw  his  brother  coming  with  the  bag  and 
shears,  but  not  a  single  ewe  was  to  be  seen. 
Clutch's  first  question  was,  what  had  become 
of  them;  and  when  Kind  told  him  what  he 


286  THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

saw,  the  elder  brother  scolded  him  with  might 
and  main  for  ever  lifting  his  eyes  off  them. 

"Much  good  the  hills  and  the  sunset  do 
us,"  said  he,  "now  that  we  have  not  a' single 
sheep.  The  other  shepherds  will  hardly  give 
us  room  among  them  at  shearing  time  or 
harvest;  but  for  my  part,  I  '11  not  stay  on  this 
plain  to  be  despised  for  poverty.  If  you  like 
to  come  with  me,  and  be  guided  by  my  advice, 
we  shall  get  service  somewhere.  I  have  heard 
my  father  say  that  there  were  great  shep- 
herds living  in  old  times  beyond  the  hills; 
let  us  go  and  see  if  they  will  take  us  for 
sheep  boys." 

Kind  would  rather  have  stayed  and  tilled 
his  father's  wheat  field,  hard  by  the  cot- 
tage; but  since  his  elder  brother  would  go,  he 
resolved  to  bear  him  company.  Accordingly, 
next  morning  Clutch  took  his  bag  and  shears, 
Kind  took  his  crook  and  pipe,  and  away 
they  went  over  the  plain  and  up  the  hills. 
All  who  saw  them  thought  that  they  had  lost 
their  senses,  for  no  shepherd  had  gone  there 
for  a  hundred  years,  and  nothing  was  to  be 
seen  but  wide  moorlands,  full  of  rugged  rocks, 
and  sloping  up,  it  seemed,  to  the  very  sky. 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK  287 

Kind  persuaded  his  brother  to  take  the  direc- 
tion the  sheep  had  taken,  but  the  ground  was 
so  rough  and  steep  that  after  two  hours' 
climbing  they  would  gladly  have  turned  back, 
if  it  had  not  been  that  their  sheep  were  gone, 
and  the  shepherds  would  laugh  at  them. 

II 

By  noon  they  came  to  the  stony  cleft  up 
which  the  three  old  ewes  had  scoured  like 
deer;  but  both  were  tired,  and  sat  down  to 
rest.  Their  feet  were  sore,  and  their  hearts 
were  heavy;  but  as  they  sat  there,  there  came 
a  sound  of  music  down  the  hills,  as  if  a 
thousand  shepherds  had  been  playing  on  their 
tops.  Clutch  and  Kind  had  never  heard  such 
music  before.  As  they  listened,  the  soreness 
passed  from  their  feet,  and  the  heaviness 
from  their  hearts;  and  getting  up,  they  fol- 
lowed the  sound  up  the  cleft,  and  over  a  wide 
heath,  covered  with  purple  bloom;  till  at  sun- 
set they  came  to  the  hilltop,  and  saw  a  broad 
pasture,  where  violets  grew  thick  among  the 
grass,  and  thousands  of  snow-white  sheep 
were  feeding,  while  an  old  man  sat  in  the 
midst  of  them,  playing  on  his  pipe.     He  wore 


288        THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

a  long  coat,  the  color  of  the  holly  leaves;  his 
hair  hung  to  his  waist,  and  his  beard  to 
his  knees;  but  both  were  as  white  as  snow, 
and  he  had  the  countenance  of  one  who  had 
led  a  quiet  life,  and  knew  no  cares  nor  losses. 

"Good  father,"  said  Kind,  for  his  elder 
brother  hung  back  and  was  afraid,  "tell 
us  what  land  is  this,  and  where  we  can 
find  service;  for  my  brother  and  I  are  shep- 
herds, and  can  well  keep  flocks  from  stray- 
ing, though  we  have  lost  our  own," 

"These  are  the  hill  pastures,"  said  the 
old  man,  "and  I  am  the  ancient  shepherd. 
My  flocks  never  stray,  but  I  have  employ- 
ment for  you.  Which  of  you  can  shear 
best?" 

"Good  father,"  said  Clutch,  taking  cour- 
age, "I  am  the  closest  shearer  in  all  the 
plain  country;  you  would  not  find  as  much 
wool  as  would  make  a  thread  on  a  sheep 
when  I  have  done  with  it." 

"You  are  the  man  for  my  business," 
replied  the  old  shepherd.  "When  the  moon 
rises,  I  will  call  the  flock  you  have  to  shear. 
Till  then  sit  down  and  rest,  and  take  your 
supper  out  of  my  wallet." 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK  289 

Clutch  and  Kind  gladly  sat  down  by  him 
among  the  violets,  and  opening  a  leathern  bag 
which  hung  by  his  side,  the  old  man  gave 
them  cakes  and  cheese,  and  a  horn  cup  to 
drink  from  a  stream  hard  by.  The  brothers 
felt  fit  for  any  work  after  that  meal;  and 
Clutch  rejoiced  in  his  own  mind  at  the  chance 
he  had  got  for  showing  his  skill  with  the 
shears.  "  Kind  will  see  how  useful  it  is  to  cut 
close,"  he  thought  to  himself;  but  they  sat 
with  the  old  man,  telling  him  the  news  of  the 
plain,  till  the  sun  went  down  and  the  moon 
rose,  and  all  the  snow-white  sheep  gathered 
and  laid  themselves  down  behind  him.  Then 
he  took  his  pipe  and  played  a  merry  tune, 
when  immediately  there  was  heard  a  great 
howling,  and  up  the  hills  came  a  troop  of 
shaggy  wolves,  with  hair  so  long  that  their 
eyes  could  scarcely  be  seen.  Clutch  would 
have  fled  for  fear,  but  the  wolves  stopped, 
and  the  old  man  said  to  him: 

"Rise,  and  shear — this  flock  of  mine  have 
too  much  wool  on  them." 

Clutch  had  never  shorn  wolves  before,  yet 
he  could  n't  think  of  losing  the  good  service, 
and  went  forward  with  a  stout  heart;    but  the 

19 


290  THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

first  of  the  wolves  showed  its  teeth,  and  all 
the  rest  raised  such  a  howl  the  moment  he 
came  near  them,  that  Clutch  was  glad  to 
throw  down  his  shears,  and  run  behind  the 
old  man  for  safety. 

"Good  father,"  cried  he,  "I  will  shear 
sheep,  but  not  wolves." 

"They  must  be  shorn,"  said  the  old  man, 
"or  you  go  back  to  the  plains,  and  they 
after  you;  but  whichever  of  you  can  shear 
chem  will  get  the  whole  flock." 

On  hearing  this,  Clutch  began  to  exclaim 
on  his  hard  fortune,  and  his  brother  who 
had  brought  him  there  to  be  hunted  and 
devoured  by  wolves;  but  Kind,  thinking 
that  things  could  be  no  worse,  caught  up  the 
shears  he  had  thrown  away  in  his  fright,  and 
went  boldly  up  to  the  nearest  wolf.  To  his 
great  surprise  the  wild  creature  seemed  to 
know  him,  and  stood  quietly  to  be  shorn,  while 
the  rest  of  the  flock  gathered  round  as  if  wait- 
ing their  turn.  Kind  clipped  neatly,  but  not 
too  close,  as  he  had  wished  his  brother  to  do 
with  the  sheep,  and  heaped  up  the  hair  on 
one  side.  When  he  had  done  with  one, 
another  came  forward,    and    Kind  went  on 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK  291 

shearing  by  the  bright  moonlight  till  the 
whole  flock  were  shorn.  Then  the  old  man 
said: 

"Ye  have  done  well.  Take  the  wool  and 
the  flock  for  your  wages,  return  with  them 
to  the  plain,  and  if  you  please,  take  this 
little-worth  brother  of  yours  for  a  boy  to 
keep  them." 

Kind  did  not  much  like  keeping  wolves,  but 
before  he  could  make  answer,  they  had  all 
changed  into  the  very  sheep  which  had  strayed 
away  so  strangely.  All  of  them  had  grown 
fatter  and  thicker  of  fleece,  and  the  hair  he 
had  cut  off  lay  by  his  side,  a  heap  of  wool 
so  fine  that  its  like  had  never  been  seen  on 
the  plain. 

Clutch  gathered  it  up  in  his  empty  bag, 
and  glad  was  he  to  go  back  to  the  plain 
with  his  brother;  for  the  old  man  sent 
them  away  with  the  flock,  saying  no  man 
must  see  the  dawn  of  day  on  that  pasture 
but  himself,  for  it  was  the  ground  of  the 
fairies. 

So  Clutch  and  Kind  went  home  with  great 
gladness.  All  the  shepherds  came  to  hear 
their  wonderful  story,  and  ever  after  liked  to 


292        THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

keep  near  them  because  they  had  such  good 
luck.  They  keep  the  sheep  together  till  this 
day,  but  Clutch  has  grown  less  greedy,  and 
Kind  alone  uses  the  shears. 

Frances  Browne. 

THE   MILLER   OF   THE   DEE 

There  dwelt  a  miller,  hale  and  bold, 

Beside  the  river  Dee; 
He  worked  and  sang  from  morn  till  night — 

No  lark  more  blithe  than  he ; 
And  this  the  burden  of  his  song 

Forever  used  to  be: 
"I  envy  nobody — no,  not  I  — 

And  nobody  envies  me!" 

"Thou  'rt  wrong,  my  friend,"  said  good  King 
Hal, 

"As  wrong  as  wrong  can  be; 
For  could  my  heart  be  light  as  thine, 

I'd  gladly  change  with  thee. 
And  tell  me  now,  what  makes  thee  sing, 

With  voice  so  loud  and  free, 
While  I  am  sad,  though  I  'm  a  king, 

Beside  the  river  Dee?" 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK  293 

The  miller  smiled  and  doffed  his  cap, 

"I  earn  my  bread,"  quoth  he; 
"I  love  my  wife,  I  love  my  friend, 

I  love  my  children  three; 
I  owe  no  penny  I  cannot  pay, 

I  thank  the  river  Dee 
That  turns  the  mill  that  grinds  the  corn 

That  feeds  my  babes  and  me." 

"Good   friend,"    said    Hal,    and    sighed   the 
while, 

"Farewell,  and  happy  be; 
But  say  no  more,  if  thou  'dst  be  true, 

That  no  one  envies  thee; 
Thy  mealy  cap  is  worth  my  crown, 

Thy  mill  my  kingdom's  fee; 

Such  men  as  thou  are  England's  boast, 

O  miller  of  the  Dee!" 

Charles  Mackay. 

THE   TSAREVNA   FROG1 

In  an  old,  old  Russian  tsarstvo,  I  do  not 
know  when,  there  lived  a  sovereign  prince 
with  the  princess  his  wife.  They  had  three 
sons,    all   of   them   young,    and   such   brave 

lFrom  "  Folk  Tales  from  the  Russian,"  by  Madame  De  Blutnenthal.  Pub- 
lished by  Rand  McNally  &•  Company,  Chicago  and  New  York. 


294  THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

fellows  that  no  pen  could  describe  them.  The 
youngest  had-  the  name  of  Ivan  Tsarevitch. 
One  day  their  father  said  to  his  sons: 

"  My  dear  boys,  take  each  of  you  an  arrow, 
draw  your  strong  bow  and  let  your  arrow  fly; 
in  whatever  court  it  falls,  in  that  court  there 
will  be  a  wife  for  you." 

The  arrow  of  the  oldest  Tsarevitch  fell  on 
a  boyar-house  just  in  front  of  the  terem 
where  women  live;  the  arrow  of  the  second 
Tsarevitch  flew  to  the  red  porch  of  a  rich 
merchant,  and  on  the  porch  there  stood  a 
sweet  girl,  the  merchant's  daughter.  The 
youngest,  the  brave  Tsarevitch  Ivan,  had 
the  ill  luck  to  send  his  arrow  into  the  midst 
of  a  swamp,  where  it  was  caught  by  a  croak- 
ing frog. 

Ivan  Tsarevitch  came  to  his  father :  ' '  How 
can  I  marry  the  frog?"  complained  the  son. 
"Is  she  my  equal?     Certainly  she  is  not." 

"Never  mind,"  replied  his  father,  "you 
have  to  marry  the  frog,  for  such  is  evidently 
your  destiny." 

Thus  the  brothers  were  married:  the  old- 
est to  a  young  boyarishnia,  a  nobleman's 
child;  the  second  to  the  merchant's  beautiful 


THE  vSTORY  TELLER'S  BOOK  295 

daughter,  and  the  youngest,  Tsarevitch  Ivan, 
to  a  croaking  frog. 

After  a  while  the  sovereign  prince  called 
his  three  sons  and  said  to  them: 

"Have  each  of  your  wives  bake  a  loaf  of 
bread  by  to-morrow  morning." 

Ivan  returned  home.  There  was  no  smile 
on  his  face,  and  his  brow  was  clouded. 

"C-r-o-a-k!  C-r-o-a-k!  Dear  husband 
of  mine,  Tsarevitch  Ivan,  why  so  sad?" 
gently  asked  the  frog.  "Was  there  anything 
disagreeable  in  the  palace?" 

"Disagreeable  indeed,"  answered  Ivan 
Tsarevitch;  "the  Tsar,  my  father,  wants  you 
to  bake  a  loaf  of  white  bread  by  to-morrow." 

"Do  not  worry,  Tsarevitch.  Go  to  bed; 
the  morning  hour  is  a  better  adviser  than  the 
dark  evening." 

The  Tsarevitch,  taking  his  wife's  advice, 
went  to  sleep.  Then  the  frog  threw  off  her 
frogskin  and  turned  into  a  beautiful,  sweet 
girl,  Vassilissa  by  name.  She  now  stepped 
out  on  the  porch  and  called  aloud: 

"Nurses  and  waitresses,  come  to  me  at 
once  and  prepare  a  loaf  of  white  bread  for 
to-morrow  morning,  a  loaf  exactly  like  those 


296        THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

I  used  to  eat  in  my  royal  father's  palace." 

In  the  morning  Tsarevitch  Ivan  awoke 
with  the  crowing  cocks,  and  you  know  the 
cocks  and  chickens  are  never  late.  Yet  the 
loaf  was  already  made,  and  so  fine  it  was  that 
nobody  could  even  describe  it,  for  only  in 
fairyland  one  finds  such  marvelous  loaves. 
It  was  adorned  all  about  with  pretty  figures, 
with  towns  and  fortresses  on  each  side,  and 
within  it  was  white  as  snow  and  light  as  a 
feather. 

The  Tsar  father  was  pleased  and  the  Tsare- 
vitch received  his  special  thanks. 

"Now  there  is  another  task,"  said  the  Tsar 
smilingly.  "Have  each  of  your  wives  weave 
a  rug  by  to-morrow." 

Tsarevitch  Ivan  came  back  to  his  home. 
There  was  no  smile  on  his  face,  and  his  brow 
was  clouded. 

1 1  C-r-o-a-k  !  C-r-o-a-k  !  Dear  Tsarevitch 
Ivan,  my  husband  and  master,  why  so 
troubled  again?     Was  not  father  pleased?" 

"How  can  I  be  otherwise?  The  Tsar, 
my  father,  has  ordered  a  rug  by  to-morrow." 

"  Do  not  worry,  Tsarevitch.  Go  to  bed;  go 
to  sleep.      The  morning  hour  will  bring  help." 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK  297 

Again  the  frog  turned  into  Vassilissa,  the 
wise  maiden,  and  again  she  called  aloud: 

"Dear  nurses  and.  faithful  waitresses,  come 
to  me  for  new  work.  Weave  a  silk  rug  like 
the  one  I  used  to  sit  upon  in  the  palace  of 
the  king,  my  father." 

Once  said,  quickly  done.  When  the  cocks 
began  their  early  "cock-a-doodle-doo,"  Tsar- 
evitch  Ivan  awoke,  and  lo!  there  lay  the  most 
beautiful  silk  rug  before  him,  a  rug  that 
no  one  could  begin  to  describe.  Threads  of 
silver  and  gold  were  interwoven  among  bright- 
colored  silken  ones,  and  the  rug  was  too 
beautiful  for  anything  but  to  admire. 

The  Tsar  father  was  pleased,  thanked  his 
son  Ivan,  and  issued  a  new  order.  He  now 
wished  to  see  the  three  wives  of  his  handsome 
sons,  and  they  were  to  present  their  brides 
on  the  next  day. 

The  Tsarevitch  Ivan  returned  home.  Cloudy 
was  his  brow,  more  cloudy  than  before. 

"C-r-o-a-k!  C-r-o-a-k!  Tsarevitch,  my 
dear  husband  and  master,  why  so  sad?  Hast 
thou  heard  anything  unpleasant  at  the 
palace?" 

"Unpleasant  enough,  indeed!      My  father, 


298  THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

the  Tsar,  ordered  all  of  us  to  present  our 
wives  to  him.  Now  tell  me,  how  could  I 
dare  go  with  thee?" 

4 'It  is  not  so  bad  after  all,  and  could  be 
much  worse,"  answered  the  frog,  gently 
croaking.  "Thou  shalt  go  alone  and  I  will 
follow  thee.  When  thou  hearest  a  noise,  a 
great  noise,  do  not  be  afraid;  simply  say: 
'There  is  my  miserable  froggy  coming  in 
her  miserable  box.'" 

The  two  elder  brothers  arrived  first  with 
their  wives,  beautiful,  bright,  and  cheerful, 
and  dressed  in  rich  garments.  Both  the 
happy  bridegrooms  made  fun  of  the  Tsare- 
vitch  Ivan. 

"Why  alone,  brother?"  they  laughingly 
said  to  him.  "Why  didst  thou  not  bring 
thy  wife  along  with  thee?  Was  there  no 
rag  to  cover  her?  Where  couldst  thou  have 
gotten  such  a  beauty?  We  are  ready  to 
wager  that  in  all  the  swamps  in  the  dominion 
of  our  father  it  would  be  hard  to  find  another 
one  like  her."     And  they  laughed  and  laughed. 

Lo!  what  a  noise!  The  palace  trembled, 
the  guests  were  all  frightened.  Tsarevitch 
Ivan  alone  remained  quiet  and  said: 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 299 

"No  danger;  it  is  my  froggy  coming  in 
her  box." 

To  the  red  porch  came  flying  a  golden  car- 
riage drawn  by  six  splendid  white  horses,  and 
Vassilissa,  beautiful  beyond  all  description, 
gently  reached  her  hand  to  her  husband.  He 
led  her  with  him  to  the  heavy  oak  tables, 
which  were  covered  with  snow-white  linen 
and  loaded  with  many  wonderful  dishes 
such  as  are  known  and  eaten  only  in  the  land 
of  fairies  and  never  anywhere  else.  The 
guests  were  eating  and  chatting  gayly. 

Vassilissa  drank  some  wine,  and  what  was 
left  in  the  tumbler  she  poured  into  her  left 
sleeve.  She  ate  some  of  the  fried  swan,  and 
the  bones  she  threw  into  her  right  sleeve. 
The  wives  of  the  two  elder  brothers  watched 
her  and  did  exactly  the  same. 

When  the  long,  hearty  dinner  was  over, 
the  guests  began  dancing  and  singing.  The 
beautiful  Vassilissa  came  forward,  as  bright 
as  a  star,  bowed  to  her  sovereign,  bowed  to 
the  honorable  guests,  and  danced  with  her 
husband,  the  happy  Tsarevitch  Ivan. 

While  dancing,  Vassilissa  waved  her  left 
sleeve  and  a  pretty  lake  appeared  in  the  midst 


300  THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

of  the  hall  and  cooled  the  air.  She  waved 
her  right  sleeve  and  white  swans  swam  on  the 
water.  The  Tsar,  the  guests,  the  servants, 
even  the  gray  cat  sitting  in  the  corner,  all 
were  amazed  and  wondered  at  the  beauti- 
ful Vassilissa.  Her  two  sisters-in-law  alone 
envied  her.  When  their  turn  came  to  dance, 
they  also  waved  their  left  sleeves  as  Vassilissa 
had  done,  and,  oh,  wonder!  they  sprinkled 
wine  all  around.  They  waved  their  right 
sleeves,  and  instead  of  swans  the  bones  flew 
in  the  face  of  the  Tsar  father.  The  Tsar 
grew  very  angry  and  bade  them  leave  the 
palace.  In  the  meantime  Ivan  Tsarevitch 
watched  a  moment  to  slip  away  unseen.  He 
ran  home,  found  the  frogskin,  and  burned 
it  in  the  fire. 

Vassilissa,  when  she  came  back,  searched 
for  the  skin,  and  when  she  could  not  find  it, 
her  beautiful  face  grew  sad  and  her  bright 
eyes  filled  with  tears.  She  said  to  Tsarevitch 
Ivan,  her  husband: 

"Oh,  dear  Tsarevitch,  what  hast  thou 
done?  There  was  but  a  short  time  left  for 
me  to  wear  the  ugly  frogskin.  The  moment 
was  near  when  we  could  have  been  happy 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK  301 

together  forever.  Now  I  must  bid  thee 
good-by.  Look  for  me  in  a  far-away  country 
to  which  no  one  knows  the  road,  at  the  palace 
of  Kostshei  the  Deathless";  and  Vassilissa 
turned  into  a  white  swan  and  flew  away 
through  the  window. 

Tsarevitch  Ivan  wept  bitterly.  Then  he 
prayed  to  the  almighty  God,  and  making  the 
sign  of  the  cross  northward,  southward,  east- 
ward, and  westward,  he  went  on  a  mysterious 
journey. 

No  one  knows  how  long  his  journey  was, 
but  one  day  he  met  an  old,  old  man.  He 
bowed  to  the  old  man,  who  said: 

"Good  day,  brave  fellow.  What  art  thou 
searching  for,  and  whither  art  thou  going?" 

Tsarevitch  Ivan  answered  sincerely,  telling 
all  about  his  misfortune  without  hiding  any- 
thing. 

"And  why  didst  thou  burn  the  frogskin? 
It  was  wrong  to  do  so.  Listen  now  to  me. 
Vassilissa  was  born  wiser  than  her  own  father, 
and  as  he  envied  his  daughter's  wisdom  he 
condemned  her  to  be  a  frog  for  three  long 
years.  But  I  pity  thee  and  want  to  help 
thee.     Here  is  a  magic  ball.     In  whatever 


302  THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

direction  this  ball  rolls,  follow  without  fear." 

Ivan  Tsarevitch  thanked  the  good  old 
man,  and  followed  his  new  guide,  the  ball. 
Long,  very  long,  was  his  road.  One  day  in 
a  wide,  flowery  field  he  met  a  bear,  a  big 
Russian  bear.  Ivan  Tsarevitch  took  his 
bow  and  was  ready  to  shoot  the  bear. 

"Do  not  kill  me,  kind  Tsarevitch,"  said 
the  bear.  "Who  knows  but  that  I  may  be 
useful  to  thee?"  And  Ivan  did  not  shoot 
the  bear. 

Above  in  the  sunny  air  there  flew  a  duck, 
a  lovely  white  duck.  Again  the  Tsarevitch 
drew  his  bow  to  shoot  it.  But  the  duck  said 
to  him:  "Do  not  kill  me,  good  Tsarevitch. 
I  certainly  shall  be  useful  to  thee  some  day." 

And  this  time  he  obeyed  the  command  of 
the  duck  and  passed  by.  Continuing  his 
way  he  saw  a  blinking  hare.  The  Tsarevitch 
prepared  an  arrow  to  shoot  it,  but  the  gray, 
blinking  hare  said:  "Do  not  kill  me,  brave 
Tsarevitch.  I  shall  prove  myself  grateful  to 
thee  in  a  very  short  time." 

The  Tsarevitch  did  not  shoot  the  hare, 
but  passed  by.  He  walked  farther  and  far- 
ther after  the  rolling  ball,  and  came  to  the 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK  303 

deep  blue  sea.  On  the  sand  there  lay  a 
fish.  I  do  not  remember  the  name  of  the 
fish,  but  it  was  a  big  fish,  almost  dying  on 
the  dry  sand. 

"O  Tsarevitch  Ivan!"  prayed  the  fish, 
"have  mercy  upon  me  and  push  me  back  into 
the  cool  sea." 

The  Tsarevitch  did  so,  and  walked  along 
the  shore.  The  ball,  rolling  all  the  time, 
brought  Ivan  to  a  hut,  a  queer,  tiny  hut 
standing  on  tiny  hen's  feet. 

1 '  Izboushka !  Izboushka ! ' '  — for  so  in  Rus- 
sia do  they  name  small  huts — "Izboushka, 
I  want  thee  to  turn  thy  front  to  me,"  cried 
Ivan,  and  lo!  the  tiny  hut  turned  its  front 
at  once.  Ivan  stepped  in  and  saw  a  witch, 
one  of  the  ugliest  witches  he  could  imagine. 

1 1  Ho !  Ivan  Tsarevitch !  What  brings  thee 
here?"  was  his  greeting  from  the  witch. 

"Oh,  thou  old  mischief!"  shouted  Ivan 
with  anger.  "Is  it  the  way  in  holy  Russia 
to  ask  questions  before  the  tired  guest  gets 
something  to  eat,  something  to  drink,  and 
some  hot  water  to  wash  the  dust  off?" 

Baba  Yaga,  the  witch,  gave  the  Tsarevitch 
plenty  to  eat  and  drink,  besides  hot  water  to 


304  THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

wash  the  dust  off.  Tsarevitch  Ivan  felt 
refreshed.  Soon  he  became  talkative,  and 
related  the  wonderful  story  of  his  marriage. 
He  told  how  he  had  lost  his  dear  wife,  and 
that  his  only  desire  was  to  find  her. 

"I  know  all  about  it,"  answered  the  witch. 
"She  is  now  at  the  palace  of  Kostshei  the 
Deathless,  and  thou  must  understand  that 
Kostshei  is  terrible.  He  watches  her  day 
and  night  and  no  one  can  ever  conquer  him. 
His  death  depends  on  a  magic  needle.  That 
needle  is  within  a  hare;  that  hare  is  within 
a  large  trunk;  that  trunk  is  hidden  in  the 
branches  of  an  old  oak  tree;  and  that  oak 
tree  is  watched  by  Kostshei  as  closely  as 
Vassilissa  herself,  which  means  closer  than 
any  treasure  he  has." 

Then  the  witch  told  Ivan  Tsarevitch  how 
and  where  to  find  the  oak  tree.  Ivan  hastily 
went  to  the  place.  But  when  he  perceived 
the  oak  tree  he  was  much  discouraged,  not 
knowing  what  to  do  or  how  to  begin  the 
work.  Lo  and  behold!  that  old  acquaintance 
of  his,  the  Russian  bear,  came  running  along, 
approached  the  tree,  uprooted  it,  and  the 
trunk  fell  and  broke.     A  hare  jumped  out 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK  305 

of  the  trunk  and  began  to  run  fast;  but 
another  hare,  Ivan's  friend,  came  running 
after,  caught  it  and  tore  it  to  pieces.  Out 
of  the  hare  there  flew  a  duck,  a  gray  one 
which  flew  very  high  and  was  almost  invisi- 
ble, but  the  beautiful  white  duck  followed 
the  bird  and  struck  its  gray  enemy,  which 
lost  an  egg.  That  egg  fell  into  the  deep  sea. 
Ivan  meanwhile  was  anxiously  watching  his 
faithful  friends  helping  him.  But  when  the 
egg  disappeared  in  the  blue  waters  he  could 
not  help  weeping. 

All  of  a  sudden  a  big  fish  came  swimming 
up,  the  same  fish  he  had  saved,  and  brought 
the  egg  in  his  mouth.  How  happy  Ivan 
was  when  he  took  it !  He  broke  it  and  found 
the  needle  inside,  the  magic  needle  upon 
which    everything   depended. 

At  the  same  moment  Kostshei  lost  his 
strength  and  power  forever.  Ivan  Tsare- 
vitch  entered  his  vast  dominions,  killed  him 
with  the  magic  needle,  and  in  one  of  the 
palaces  found  his  own  dear  wife,  his  beautiful 
Vassilissa.  He  took  her  home  and  they  were 
very  happy  ever  after. 

Retold.     Madame  De  Blumenthal. 


306  THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

THE   SPRING   WALK 

We  had  a  pleasant  walk  to-day, 
Over  the  meadows  and  far  away, 
Across  the  bridge  by  the  water  mill, 
By  the  woodside,  and  up  the  hill; 
And  if  you  listen  to  what  I  say, 
I'll  tell  you  what  we  saw  to-day. 

Amid  a  hedge,  where  the  first  leaves 
Were  peeping  from  their  sheaths  so  shy, 

We  saw  four  eggs  within  a  nest, 

And  they  were  blue  as  the  summer's  sky. 

An  elder  branch  dipp'd  in  the  brook, 
We  wondered  why  it  moved,  and  found 

A  silken-hair 'd,  smooth  water  rat 

Nibbling  and  swimming  round  and   round. 

Where  daisies  open'd  to  the  sun, 

In  a  broad  meadow,  green  and  white, 

The  lambs  were  racing  eagerly — 
We  never  saw  a  prettier  sight. 

We  saw  upon  the  shady  banks 
Long  rows  of  golden  flowers  shine, 

And  first  mistook  for  buttercups 
The  star-shaped  yellow  celandine. 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK  307 

Anemones  and  primroses, 

And  the  blue  violets  of  spring, 
We  found  whilst  listening  by  a  hedge 

To  hear  a  merry  plowman  sing. 

And  from  the  earth  the  plow  turn'd  up 
There  came  a  sweet  refreshing  smell, 

Such  as  the  lily  of  the  vale 

Sends  forth  from  many  a  woodland  dell. 

We  saw  the  yellow  wallflower  wave 

Upon  a  moldering  castle  wall, 
And  then  we  watch 'd  the  busy  rooks 

Among  the  ancient  elm  trees  tall. 

And  leaning  from  the  old  stone  bridge, 

Below  we  saw  our  shadows  lie, 
And  through  the  gloomy  arches  watch'd 

The  swift  and  fearless  swallows  fly. 

We  heard  the  speckle-breasted  lark 
As  it  sang  somewhere  out  of  sight, 

And  we  tried  to  find  it,  but  the  sky 
Was  fill'd  with  clouds  of  dazzling  light. 

We  saw  young  rabbits  near  the  wood, 
And  heard  a  pheasant's  wing  go  "whir"; 

And  then  we  saw  a  squirrel  leap 
From  an  old  oak  tree  to  a  fir. 


308 THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

We  came  back  by  the  village  fields, 
A  pleasant  walk  it  was  across  'em, 

For  all  behind  the  houses  lay 

The  orchards  red  and  white  with  blossom. 

Were  I  to  tell  you  all  we  saw, 

I'm  sure  that  it  would  take  me  hours; 

For  the  whole  landscape  was  alive 

With  bees,  and  birds,  and  buds,  and  flowers. 

Thomas  Miller. 

THE  LANGUAGE  OF  THE  BIRDS1 

Somewhere,  in  a  town  in  holy  Russia, 
there  lived  a  rich  merchant  with  his  wife. 
He  had  an  only  son,  a  dear,  bright,  and  brave 
boy  called  Ivan.  One  lovely  day  Ivan  sat 
at  the  dinner  table  with  his  parents.  Near  the 
window  in  the  same  room  hung  a  cage,  and 
a  nightingale,  a  sweet- voiced,  gray  bird,  was 
imprisoned  within.  The  sweet  nightingale  be- 
gan to  sing  its  wonderful  song  with  trills  and 
high  silvery  tones.  The  merchant  listened 
and  listened  to  the  song  and  said: 

"How  I  wish  that  I  could  understand 
the  meaning  of  the  different  songs  of  all  the 

i  From  "Folk  Tales  from  the  Russian,"  by  Madame  De  Blumenthal.  Pub- 
lished by  Rand  McNally  &•  Company,  Chicago  and  New  York. 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK  309 

birds!  I  would  give  half  my  wealth  to  the 
man,  if  only  there  were  such  a  man,  who 
could  make  plain  to  me  all  the  different 
songs  of  the  different  birds." 

Ivan  took  notice  of  these  words  and  no 
matter  where  he  went,  no  matter  where  he 
was,  no  matter  what  he  did,  he  always 
thought  of  how  he  could  learn  the  language 
of  the  birds. 

Some  time  after  this  the  merchant's  son 
happened  to  be  hunting  in  a  forest.  The 
winds  rose,  the  sky  became  clouded,  the 
lightning  flashed,  the  thunder  roared  loudly, 
and  the  rain  fell  in  torrents.  Ivan  soon 
came  near  a  large  tree  and  saw  a  big  nest 
in  the  branches.  Four  small  birds  were  in 
the  nest;  they  were  quite  alone,  and  neither 
father  nor  mother  was  there  to  protect  them 
from  the  cold  and  wet.  The  good  Ivan 
pitied  them,  climbed  the  tree,  and  covered 
the  little  ones  with  his  " kaftan,"  a  long- 
skirted  coat  which  the  Russian  peasants 
and  merchants  usually  wear.  The  thunder 
storm  passed  by  and  a  big  bird  came  flying 
and  sat  down  on  a  branch  near  the  nest  and 
spoke  very  kindly  to  Ivan. 


3io        THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

"Ivan,  I  thank  thee;  thou  hast  protected 
my  little  children  from  the  cold  and  rain 
and  I  wish  to  do  something  for  thee.  Tell 
me  what  thou  dost  wish." 

Ivan  answered:  "I  am  not  in  need;  I 
have  everything  for  my  comfort.  But  teach 
me  the  birds'  language." 

"Stay  with  me  three  days  and  thou  shalt 
know  all  about  it." 

Ivan  remained  in  the  forest  three  days. 
He  understood  well  the  teaching  of  the  big 
bird  and  returned  home  more  clever  than 
before.  One  beautiful  day  soon  after  this 
Ivan  sat  with  his  parents  when  the  nightin- 
gale was  singing  in  his  cage.  His  song  was 
so  sad,  however,  so  very  sad,  that  the  mer- 
chant and  his  wife  also  became  sad,  and 
their  son,  their  good  Ivan,  who  listened 
very  attentively,  was  even  more  affected,  and 
the  tears  came  running  down  his  cheeks. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  asked  his  parents; 
"what  art  thou  weeping   about,  dear  son?" 

"Dear  parents,"  answered  the  son,  "it 
is  because  I  understand  the  meaning  of  the 
nightingale's  song,  and  because  this  meaning 
is  so  sad  for  all  of  us." 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK  311 

"What  then  is  the  meaning?  Te]l  us  the 
whole  truth;  do  not  hide  it  from  us,"  said 
the  father  and  mother. 

"Oh,  how  sad  it  sounds!"  replied  the 
son.  "How  much  better  would  it  be  never 
to  have  been  born!" 

"Do  not  frighten  us,"  said  the  parents, 
alarmed.  "If  thou  dost  really  understand 
the  meaning  of  the  song,  tell  us  at  once." 

"Do  you  not  hear  for  yourselves?  The 
nightingale  says:  'The  time  will  come  when 
Ivan,  the  merchant's  son,  shall  become  Ivan, 
the  king's  son,  and  his  own  father  shall 
serve  him  as  a  simple  servant.'" 

The  merchant  and  his  wife  felt  troubled 
and  began  to  distrust  their  son,  their  good 
Ivan.  So  one  night  they  gave  him  a  drowsy 
drink,  and  when  he  had  fallen  asleep  they 
took  him  to  a  boat  on  the  wide  sea,  spread 
the  white  sails,  and  pushed  the  boat  from 
the  shore. 

For  a  long  time  the  boat  danced  on  the 
waves  and  finally  it  came  near  a  large  mer- 
chant vessel,  which  struck  against  it  with 
such  a  shock  that  Ivan  awoke.  The  crew 
on  the  large  vessel  saw  Ivan  and  pitied  him. 


312        THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

So  they  decided  to  take  him  along  with  them 
and  did  so.  High,  very  high,  above  in  the 
sky  they  perceived  cranes.  Ivan  said  to 
the  sailors: 

"Be  careful;  I  hear  the  birds  predicting 
a  storm.  Let  us  enter  a  harbor  or  we  shall 
suffer  great  danger  and  damage.  All  the 
sails  will  be  torn  and  all  the  masts  will  be 
broken." 

But  no  one  paid  any  attention  and  they 
went  farther  on.  In  a  short  time  the  storm 
arose,  the  wind  tore  the  vessel  almost  to 
pieces,  and  they  had  a  very  hard  time  to 
repair  all  the  damage.  When  they  were 
through  with  their  work  they  heard  many 
wild  swans  flying  above  them  and  talking 
very  loud  among  themselves. 

"What  are  they  talking  about?"  inquired 
the  men,  this  time  with  interest. 

"Be  careful,"  advised  Ivan.  "I  hear  and 
distinctly  understand  them  to  say  that  the 
pirates,  the  terrible  sea  robbers,  are  near. 
If  we  do  not  enter  a  harbor  at  once  they 
will  imprison  and  kill  us." 

The  crew  quickly  obeyed  this  advice  and 
as  soon  as  the  vessel  entered  the  harbor  the 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK  313 

pirate  boats  passed  by  and  the  merchants 
saw  them  capture  several  unprepared  vessels. 
When  the  danger  was  over,  the  sailors  with 
Ivan  went  farther,  still  farther.  Finally 
the  vessel  anchored  near  a  town,  large  and 
unknown  to  the  merchants.  A  king  ruled 
in  that  town  who  was  very  much  annoyed 
by  three  black  crows.  These  three  crows 
were  all  the  time  perching  near  the  window 
of  the  king's  chamber.  No  one  knew  how 
to  get  rid  of  them  and  no  one  could  kill 
them.  The  king  ordered  notices  to  be  placed 
at  all  crossings  and  on  all  prominent  buildings, 
saying  that  whoever  was  able  to  relieve  the 
king  from  the  noisy  birds  would  be  rewarded 
by  obtaining  the  youngest  korolevna,  the 
king's  daughter,  for  a  wife;  but  the  one 
who  should  have  the  daring  to  undertake 
but  not  succeed  in  delivering  the  palace 
from  the  crows  would  have  his  head  cut  off. 
Ivan  attentively  read  the  announcement, 
once,  twice,  and  once  more.  Finally  he  made 
the  sign  of  the  cross  and  went  to  the  palace. 
He  said  to  the  servants: 

"Open  the  window  and  let  me  listen  to 
the  birds." 


3H        THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

The  servants  obeyed  and  Ivan  listened 
for  a  while.     Then  he  said: 

"Show  me  to  your  sovereign  king." 

When  he  reached  the  room  where  the 
king  sat  on  a  high,  rich  chair,  he  bowed  and 
said: 

"There  are  three  crows,  a  father  crow,  a 
mother  crow,  and  a  son  crow.  The  trouble 
is  that  they  desire  to  obtain  thy  royal  deci- 
sion as  to  whether  the  son  crow  must  follow 
his  father  crow  or  his  mother  crow." 

The  king  answered:  "The  son  crow  must 
follow  the  father  crow." 

As  soon  as  the  king  announced  his  royal 
decision  the  crow  father  with  the  crow  son 
went  one  way  and  the  crow  mother  dis- 
appeared the  other  way,  and  no  one  has 
heard  the  noisy  birds  since.  The  king  gave 
one  half  of  his  kingdom  and  his  youngest 
korolevna  to  Ivan,  and  a  happy  life  began 
for  him. 

In  the  meantime  his  father,  the  rich  mer- 
chant, lost  his  wife  and  by  and  by  his  fortune 
also.  There  was  no  one  left  to  take  care 
of  him,  and  the  old  man  went  begging  under 
the  windows  of  charitable  people.     He  went 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK  315 

from  one  window  to  another,  from  one 
village  to  another,  from  one  town  to  another, 
and  one  bright  day  he  came  to  the  palace 
where  Ivan  lived,  begging  humbly  for  charity. 
Ivan  saw  him  and  recognized  him,  ordered 
him  to  come  inside,  and  gave  him  food  to 
eat  and  also  supplied  him  with  good  clothes, 
asking  questions: 

"Dear  old  man,  what  can  I  do  for  thee?" 
he  said. 

"If  thou  art  so  very  good,"  answered  the 
poor  father,  without  knowing  that  he  was 
speaking  to  his  own  son,  "let  me  remain 
here  and  serve  thee  among  thy  faithful 
servants." 

"  Dear,  dear  father! "  exclaimed  Ivan,  "thou 
didst  doubt  the  true  song  of  the  nightingale, 
and  now  thou  seest  that  our  fate  was  to 
meet  according  to  the  predictions  of  long 
ago." 

The  old  man  was  frightened  and  knelt 
before  his  son,  but  his  Ivan  remained  the 
same  good  son  as  before,  took  his  father 
lovingly  into  his  arms,  and  together  they 
wept  over  their  sorrow. 

Several  days  passed  by  and  the  old  father 


3i6  THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

felt  courage  to  ask  his  son,  the  korolevitch: 
"Tell  me,  my  son,  how  was  it  that  thou 
didst  not  perish  in  the  boat?" 
Ivan  Korolevitch  laughed  gayly. 
"I  presume,"  he  answered,   "that  it  was 
not  my  fate  to  perish  at  the  bottom  of  the 
wide   sea,   but   my   fate   was   to   marry   the 
korolevna,  my  beautiful  wife,  and  to  sweeten 
the  old  age  of  my  dear  father." 

Madame  De  Blumenthal. 


THE   CONSTANT  TIN   SOLDIER 


.There  were  once  nve-and-twenty  tin  sol- 
diers— all  brothers,  for  they  had  all  been 
born  of  one  old  tin  spoon. 

They  shouldered  their  muskets  and  looked 
straight  before  them.  They  wore  splendid 
uniforms  of  red  and  blue.  When  the  lid 
was  taken  off  the  box  in  which  they  lay,  the 
first  words  they  heard  in  the  world  were, 
"Tin  Soldiers!"  This  was  said  by  a  little 
boy  who  clapped  his  hands  with  joy  because 

l From  "Andersen's  Best  Fairy  Tales,"  translated  by  Alice  Corbin  Hender- 
son.    Published  by  Rand  McNally  6*  Company,  Chicago  and  New  York. 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK  317 

the  soldiers  had  been  given  to  him  for  his 
birthday. 

Each  soldier  was  exactly  like  the  others, 
except  one  that  had  but  one  leg  because  he 
had  been  born  last  and  there  had  not  been 
enough  tin  to  finish  him.  But  he  stood 
as  well  upon  his  one  leg  as  the  others  did 
upon  their  two.  And  this  is  the  one  sol- 
dier that  did  anything  at  all  worth  talking 
about. 

Of  all  the  other  toys  that  stood  on  the 
table  on  which  the  Tin  Soldier  had  been 
placed,  the  one  that  attracted  most  attention 
was  a  castle  made  of  cardboard.  Through 
its  little  windows  one  could  see  straight  into 
the  many  rooms.  Outside  of  the  castle 
little  trees  stood  about  a  small  lake  that  was 
made  of  looking-glass.  Swans  of  wax  swam 
on  this  lake,  and,  looking  downward,  saw 
their  reflections  in  the  clear  water. 

But,  pretty  as  this  was,  the  prettiest  thing 
of  all  was  a  little  lady  standing  in  the  open 
door  of  the  cardboard  castle.  She,  too,  was 
cut  out  of  paper;  and  she  wore  a  dress  of  the 
purest  gauze.  A  little  narrow  ribbon  was 
worn  over  her  shoulders  like  a  scarf,  and  in 


3i 8        THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

the  middle  of  this  ribbon  was  a  shining  tinsel 
rose. 

The  little  lady  stretched  out  both  her 
arms,  for  she  was  a  dancer,  and  then  lifted 
one  foot  so  high  in  the  air  that  the  soldier 
could  not  see  it  at  all,  and  so  thought  that 
she,  like  himself,  had  only  one  leg! 

"That  would  be  just  the  wife  for  me," 
thought  the  Tin  Soldier,  "if  only  she  were 
not  too  grand! 

"She  lives  in  a  castle,  and  I  have  only  a 
box,  and  there  are  five-and-twenty  of  us  in 
that.  It  would  be  no  place  for  her!  Still,  I 
must  try  to  make  friends  with  her." 

So  he  hid  himself  safely  behind  a  snuffbox, 
where  he  could  easily  watch  the  dainty 
Little  Dancer  who  stood  on  one  leg  without 
losing  her  balance. 

Late  in  the  evening  all  the  other  soldiers 
were  put  in  their  box  and  the  people  of  the 
house  went  to  bed. 

Then  the  toys  began  to  play.  They  made 
visits,  fought  battles,  and  gave  parties.  The 
tin  soldiers  wanted  to  join  the  games;  they 
rattled  and  rattled  in  their  box,  but  could 
not  get  the  lid  off.     The  nutcracker  turned 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK  319 

handsprings,  and  the  pencil  drew  figures  on 
the  slate. 

There  was  so  much  noise  that  the  Canary 
woke  up  and  began  to  talk  poetry. 

Only  the  Tin  Soldier  and  the  Little  Dancer 
did  not  move  from  their  places.  She  stood 
straight  up  on  the  point  of  one  toe,  and  held 
up  her  arms;  and  he  was  just  as  steady  as 
ever  upon  his  one  leg.  He  never  turned  his 
eyes  away  from  her. 

Twelve  o'clock  struck  and — pop!  up  flew 
the  lid  of  the  snuffbox!  There  was  no  snuff 
in  it  at  all!  There  was  only  a  little  black 
goblin,  a  sort  of  a  Jack-in-the-Box. 

"Tin  Soldier!"  said  the  Goblin,  "don't 
stare  at  things  that  don't  concern  you!" 

But  the  Tin  Soldier  gave  no  sign  of  hearing 
him. 

"Just  you  wait  then  till  to-morrow!"  said 
the  Goblin. 

II 

And  in  the  morning,  when  the  children 
got  up,  one  of  them  put  the  Tin  Soldier  on 
the  window  sill.  Now  whether  it  was  the 
goblin  or  the  wind  that  did  it  we  don't  know; 


320        THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

but  true  it  is  that  all  at  once  the  window  flew 
open  and  the  Tin  Soldier  fell,  headforemost, 
all  the  way  down  from  the  third  story  to  the 
street  below. 

It  was  a  terrible  fall!  The  Tin  Soldier 
turned  over  and  over  in  the  air,  and  when 
at  last  he  landed,  his  bayonet  stuck  between 
the  paving  stones  and  his  one  leg  was 
straight   up   in   the   air! 

The  maidservant  and  the  little  boy  ran 
down  at  once  to  look  for  the  Tin  Soldier. 
But,  although  they  almost  trod  upon  him, 
they  could  not  see  him  anywhere. 

If  the  Tin  Soldier  had  once  called  out 
"Here  I  am!"  they  would  have  found  him. 
But  the  Tin  Soldier,  being  in  uniform,  did 
not  think  it  proper  to  shout  for  help. 

Suddenly  it  began  to  rain.  Each  drop  fell 
faster  than  the  last,  and  soon  the  water 
poured  down  in  a  steady  stream.  When 
the  rain  was  over  at  last,  two  street  boys 
came  along. 

"Just  look!"  cried  one.  "There's  a  Tin 
Soldier!     He  shall  go  for  a  sail!" 

So  they  made  a  boat  out  of  a  newspaper 
and  put  the  Tin  Soldier  in  the  middle  of  it. 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK  321 

He  sailed  away  down  the  gutter,  while  the 
two  street  boys  ran  along,  clapping  their 
hands. 

Goodness,  how  the  waves  did  roll  in  that 
gutter,  and  how  fast  the  stream  ran!  The 
paper  boat  rocked  up  and  down,  and  up  and 
down,  and  sometimes  whirled  around  in  such 
a  hurry  that  the  Tin  Soldier  trembled.  But 
he  stood  steady  and  never  moved  a  muscle. 
He  looked  straight  before  him  and  held  tight 
to  his  musket. 

All  at  once  the  boat  shot  into  a  long  drain 
tunnel,  and  it  became  as  dark  as  it  had  been 
in  his  box  at  home. 

"Where  am  I  going  now?"  thought  the 
Tin  Soldier.  "Oh,  yes,  of  course  it's  the 
Goblin's  doing!  But  if  the  Little  Dancer 
only  sat  here  beside  me,  it  might  be  twice 
as  dark  for  all  I  should  care!" 

At  this  moment  a  big  water  rat  who  lived 
in  the  tunnel  called  out  to  the  Tin  Soldier, 
1 '  Have  you  a  pass  ?     Give  me  your  passport ! ' ' 

But  the  Tin  Soldier  kept  still  and  clung 
all  the  tighter  to  his  musket. 

The  paper  boat  rushed  on  and  on,  and  the 
big  water  rat  swam  after  it.  Whew!  how  he 
21 


322        THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

gnashed  his  teeth  and  shouted  to  the  bits  of 
stick  and  stone:  "Stop  him!  Stop  him! 
He  hasn't  paid  toll!  He  hasn't  shown  his 
passport!" 

But  the  tide  became  stronger  and  stronger. 
The  Tin  Soldier  could  see  the  bright  daylight 
where  the  tunnel  ended.  Then  he  heard  a 
roaring  sound  that  well  might  have  frightened 
a  braver  man. 

Think!  Just  where  the  drain  ended,  the 
stream  ran  into  a  big  canal!  That  was  as 
dangerous  for  the  Tin  Soldier  as  going  over 
a  great  waterfall  would  be  for  us. 

But  he  was  so  near  the  end  that  he  could 
not  stop.  The  boat  dashed  over  the  edge  of 
the  drain  into  the  deep  canal. 

The  Tin  Soldier  held  himself  as  stiff  as  he 
could.  No  one  could  say  that  he  moved  an 
eyelid. 

The  boat  swirled  round,  and  round,  and 
round.  At  last  it  filled  up  to  the  brim  with 
water;  it  must  sink. 

The  Tin  Soldier  stood  up  to  his  neck  in 
water.  The  boat  sank  deeper  and  deeper. 
The  paper  kept  dropping  to  pieces.  At  last, 
as  the   water  went   over  the   Tin   Soldier's 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK  323 

head,  he  thought  of  the  pretty,  pretty  Little 
Dancer  whom  he  was  never  to  see  again. 
In  his  ears  rang  the  words  of  the  song, 

"Farewell,  farewell,  thou  warrior  brave, 
For  thou  shalt  die  to-day." 

At  last  the  paper  boat  gave  way  entirely 
and  the  Tin  Soldier  fell  through — but  just 
at  that  moment  he  was  snapped  up  by  a 
big  fish ! 

Ill 

Oh,  how  dark  it  was  inside  that  fish!  It 
was  even  darker  than  it  had  been  in  the  tun- 
nel. It  was  very  narrow,  too.  But  the  Tin 
Soldier  was  as  sturdy  as  ever,  and  lay  at  full 
length,  shouldering  hrs  musket. 

Suddenly  the  fish  rushed  about  hither  and 
thither.  It  made  the  most  frantic  move- 
ments. But  at  last  it  lay  perfectly  still 
for  a  long,  long  time.  Then  all  at  once 
something  flashed  through  the  darkness  like 
lightning. 

The  Tin  Soldier  was  once  more  in  broad 
daylight,  and  a  voice  cried  aloud: 

"The  Tin  Soldier!" 


324        THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

The  fish  had  been  caught,  carried  to  mar- 
ket, sold,  and  brought  into  the  kitchen, 
where  the  cook  cut  it  open  with  a  knife. 

She  picked  up  the  soldier  around  the 
waist  with  her  finger  and  thumb  and  carried 
him  into  the  parlor,  where  every  one  wanted 
to  see  the  famous  person  who  had  traveled 
about  inside  of  a  fish. 

But  the  Tin  Soldier  was  not  at  all  proud. 
They  sat  him  up  on  the  table,  and  there — 
no!  How  could  it  be?  The  Tin  Soldier 
found  himself  in  the  very  same  room  that 
he  had  been  in  before! 

He  saw  the  rame  children.  The  same 
toys  stood  upon  the  table.  And  there  was 
the  same  cardboard  castle  with  the  Little 
Dancer  standing  in  the  open  door!  She 
was  still  standing  on  one  leg  with  the  other 
one  held  away  up  in  the  air. 

The  Tin  Soldier  was  so  touched  by  all 
this  that  he  could  hardly  keep  from  weeping 
tin  tears.  But  a  soldier  must  not  cry!  He 
looked  at  her  and  she  looked  at  him,  and 
neither  said  a  word! 

Then  one  of  the  little  boys  took  the  Tin 
Soldier  and  without  rhyme  or  reason  flung 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK  325 

him  into  the  fire.     No  doubt  the  Goblin  in 
the  snuffbox  was  to  blame  for  that! 

The  Tin  Soldier  stood  there  in  the  blazing 
light.  He  felt  a  heat  that  was  terrible;  but 
whether  it  came  from  the  fire  or  from  the 
love  in  his  heart,  he  did  not  know. 

All  the  colors  had  faded  out  of  his  uni- 
form; but  whether  that  had  been  caused  by 
the  dangers  he  had  been  through  or  by  his 
grief,  no  one  could  say. 

He  looked  at  the  Little  Dancer ;  she  looked 
at  him.  He  felt  that  he  was  melting;  but  he 
held  himself  straight  and  stiff  and  shouldered 
his  gun  bravely. 

Then,  suddenly,  the  door  blew  open,  the 
wind  caught  the  Little  Dancer,  and  she  flew 
straight  into  the  fire  to  the  Tin  Soldier — 
flashed  up  in  a  flame,  and  was  gone! 

Then,  indeed,  the  Tin  Soldier  melted  down 
into  a  lump ;  and  when  the  maidservant  took 
out  the  ashes  next  day  she  found  him  in 
the  shape  of  a  little  tin  heart. 

And  of  the  Little  Dancer  nothing  re- 
mained but  the  tinsel  rose,  and  that  was 
burned  as  black  as  a  coal. 

Hans  Christian  Andersen. 


326  THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

MR.    AND    MRS.    SPIKKY    SPARROW 

I 

On  a  little  piece  of  wood 
Mr.  Spikky  Sparrow  stood: 
Mrs.  Sparrow  sat  close  by, 
A-making  of  an  insect  pie 
For  her  little  children  five, 
In  the  nest  and  all  alive; 
Singing  with  a  cheerful  smile, 
To  amuse  them  all  the  while, 

"T  wikky  wikky  wikky  wee, 

Wikky  bikky  twikky  tee, 
Spikky  bikky  bee!" 

II 
Mrs.  Spikky  Sparrow  said, 
"Spikky,  darling!   in  my  head 
Many  thoughts  of  trouble  come, 
Like  to  flies  upon  a  plum. 
All  last  night,  among  the  trees, 
I  heard  you  cough,  I  heard  you  sneeze; 
And  thought  I,  'It 's  come  to  that 
Because  he  does  not  wear  a  hat!' 

Chippy  wippy  sikky  tee, 

Bikky  wikky  tikky  mee, 
Spikky  chippy  wee! 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK  327 

III 

"Not  that  yon  are  growing  old; 
But  the  nights  are  growing  cold. 
No  one  stays  out  all  night  long 
Without  a  hat:     I'm  sure  it 's  wrong!" 
Mr.  Spikky  said,  "How  kind, 
Dear,  you  are,  to  speak  your  mind! 
All  your  life  I  wish  you  luck! 
You  are,  you  are,  a  lovely  duck! 

Witchy  witchy  witchy  wee, 

Twitchy  witchy  witchy  bee, 
Tikky  tikky  tee! 

IV 

"I  was  also  sad  and  thinking, 
When  one  day  I  saw  you  winking, 
And  I  heard  you  sniffle-snuffle, 
And  I  saw  your  feathers  ruffle: 
To  myself  I  sadly  said, 
'She  's  neuralgia  in  her  head! 
That  dear  head  has  nothing  on  it! 
Ought  she  not  to  wear  a  bonnet?' 

Witchy  kitchy  kitchy  wee, 

Spikky  wikky  mikky  bee, 
Chippy  wippy  chee! 


328  THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

V 

1 '  Let  us  both  fly  up  to  town : 
There  I  '11  buy  you  such  a  gown ! 
Which,  completely  in  the  fashion, 
You  shall  tie  a  sky-blue  sash  on; 
And  a  pair  of  slippers  neat 
To  fit  your  darling  little  feet, 
So  that  you  will  look  and  feel 
Quite  galloobious  and  genteel, 

Jikky  wikky  bikky  see, 

Chikky  bikky  wikky  bee, 
Twicky  witchy  wee!" 

VI 

So  they  both  to  London  went, 
Alighting  on  the  Monument; 
Whence  they  flew  down  swiftly — pop! 
Into  Moses*  wholesale  shop: 
There  they  bought  a  hat  and  bonnet, 
And  a  gown  wTith  spots  upon  it, 
A  satin  sash  of  Cloxam  blue, 
And  a  pair  of  slippers  too. 
Zikky  wikky  mikky  bee, 
Witchy  witchy  mitchy  kee, 
Sikky  tikky  wee! 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK  329 

VII 

Then,  when  so  completely  dressed 

Back  they  flew,  and  reached  their  nest. 

Their  children  cried,  "O  ma  and  pa! 

How  truly  beautiful  you  are!" 

Said  they,  "We  trust  that  cold  or  pain 

We  shall  never  feel  again; 

While,  perched  on  tree  or  house  or  steeple, 

We  now  shall  look  like  other  people. 

Witchy  witchy  witchy  wee, 

Twikky  mikky  bikky  bee, 

Zikky  sikky  tee!" 

Edward  Lear. 


CONTENTED   JOHN 

One    honest   John    Tomkins,    a   hedger    and 

ditcher, 
Although  he  was  poor,  did  not  want  to  be 

richer ; 
For  all  such  vain  wishes  in  him  were  prevented 
By  a  fortunate  habit  of  being  contented. 

Though  cold  was  the  weather,  or  dear  was 

the  food, 
John  was  never  found  in  a  murmuring  mood ; 


330        THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

For  this  he  was  constantly  heard  to  declare, — 
What  he  could  not  prevent  he  would  cheer- 
fully bear. 

"For  why  should  I  grumble  and  murmur?" 

he  said; 
11  If  I  cannot  get  meat,  T  can  surely  get  bread; 
And,  though  fretting  may  make  my  calamities 

deeper, 
It  can  never  cause  bread  and  cheese  to  be 

cheaper." 

If  John  was  afflicted  with  sickness  or  pain, 
He  wished  himself  better,  but  did  not  com- 
plain ; 
Nor  lie  and  fret  in  despondence  and  sorrow, 
But  said  that  he  hoped  to  be  better  to-morrow. 

If  any  one  wronged  him  or  treated  him  ill, 
Why,   John   was  good-natured   and   sociable 

still; 
For  he  said  that  revenging  the  injury  done 
Would   be   making   two   rogues   when    there 

need  be  but  one. 

And  thus  honest  John,   though  his  station 
was  humble, 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK  331 

Passed  through  this  sad  world  without  even 

a  grumble; 
And  I  wish  that  some  folks,  who  are  greater 

and  richer, 
Would  copy  John  Tomkins,  the  hedger  and 

ditcher. 

Jane  Taylor. 

TUBAL   CAIN 

Old  Tubal  Cain  was  a  man  of  might, 

In  the  days  when  Earth  was  young; 
By  the  fierce  red  light  of  his  furnace  bright, 

The  strokes  of  his  hammer  rung; 
And  he  lifted  high  his  brawny  hand, 

O'er  the  iron  glowing  clear, 
Till  the  sparks  rushed  out  in  scarlet  showers, 

As  he  fashioned  the  sword  and  spear. 
And  he  sang,  ' '  Hurrah  for  my  handiwork ! 

Hurrah  for  the  spear  and  the  sword! 
Hurrah  for  the  hand  that  shall  wield  them 
well, 

For  he  shall  be  king  and  lord." 

To  Tubal  Cain  came  many  a  one, 
As  he  wrought  by  his  roaring  fire, 


332  THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

And  each  one  prayed  for  a  strong  steel  blade 

As  the  crown  of  his  desire; 
And  he  made  them  weapons  sharp  and  strong, 

Till  they  shouted  loud  for  glee, 
And  gave  him  gifts  of  pearl  and  gold, 

And  spoils  of  the  forest  free. 
And  they  sang,  "Hurrah  for  Tubal  Cain, 

Who  hath  given  us  strength  anew! 
Hurrah  for  the  smith!  hurrah  for  the  fire, 

And  hurrah  for  the  metal  true!" 

But  a  sudden  change  came  o'er  his  heart, 

Ere  the  setting  of  the  sun, 
And  Tubal  Cain  was  filled  with  pain 

For  the  evil  he  had  done. 
He  saw  that  men,  with  rage  and  hate, 

Made  war  upon  their  kind, 
That  the  land  was  red  with  the  blood  they 
shed, 

In  their  lust  for  carnage  blind. 
And  he  said,  "Alas!  that  ever  I  made, 

Or  that  skill  of  mine  should  plan, 
The  spear  and  the  sword  for  men  whose  joy 

Is  to  slay  their  fellow-man!" 

And  for  many  a  day  old  Tubal  Cain 
Sat  brooding  o'er  his  woe; 


THE  vSTORY  TELLER'S  BOOK  333 

And  his  hand  forebore  to  smite  the  ore, 

And  his  furnace  smoldered  low. 
But  he  rose  at  last  with  a  cheerful  face, 

And  a  bright,  courageous  eye, 
And  bared  his  strong  right  arm  for  work, 

While  the  quick  flames  mounted  high. 
And  he  sang,  " Hurrah  for  my  handicraft!" 

And  the  red  sparks  lit  the  air; 
"Not  alone  for  the  blade  was  the  bright  steel 
made," 

And  he  fashioned  the  first  plowshare. 

And  men,  taught  wisdom  from  the  past, 

In  friendship  joined  their  hands, 
Hung  the  sword  in  the  hall,  the  spear  on  the 
wall, 

And  plowed  the  willing  lands; 
And  sang,  " Hurrah  for  Tubal  Cain! 

Our  stanch  good  friend  is  he; 
And  for  the  plowshare  and  the  plow, 

To  him  our  praise  shall  be. 
But  while  oppression  lifts  its  head, 

Or  a  tyrant  would  be  lord, 
Though  we  may  thank  him  for  the  plow, 

We'll  not  forget  the  sword!" 

Charles  Mackay. 


334  THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

SNYEGURKA1 

There  was  once  upon  a  time  a  peasant 
named  Ivan,  who  had  a  wife  named  Mary. 
They  had  been  married  many  years,  and 
loved  one  another,  but  they  had  no  children, 
and  this  caused  them  so  much  sorrow  that 
they  could  find  no  pleasure  but  in  watching 
the  children  of  their  neighbors.  What  could 
they  do?  Heaven  had  willed  it  so.  Things 
in  this  world  do  not  go  as  we  wish,  but  as 
Heaven  ordains. 

One  day,  in  the  winter,  the  children  played 
about  in  the  road  and  the  two  old  folk  looked 
on,  sitting  in  the  window  seat.  At  last  the 
children  began  to  make  a  beautiful  snow 
figure.    Ivan  and  Mary  looked  on,  enjoying  it. 

All  of  a  sudden  Ivan  said,  "Wife,  suppose 
we  make  a  snow  figure?" 

Mary  was  ready. 

"Why  not?"  said  she.  "We  might  as  well 
amuse  ourselves  a  little.  But  what  is  the 
use  of  making  a  big  figure?  Better  make  a 
snow-child,  since  God  has  not  given  us  a  liv- 
ing one." 

i  From  "Russian  Folk  Lore  and  Legends" 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK  335 

"  You  are  right, "  said  Ivan,  and  he  took  his 
hat  and  went  out  into  the  garden  with  his  wife. 

So  they  set  to  work  to  make  a  snow-child. 
They  fashioned  a  little  body,  little  hands,  and 
little  feet,  and  when  all  that  was  done  they 
rolled  a  snowball  and  shaped  it  into  a  head. 

"Heaven  bless  you!"  cried  a  passer-by. 

"Thanks,"  replied  Ivan. 

"The  help  of  Heaven  is  always  good," 
said  Mary. 

"What  are  you  doing?"  asked  the  stranger. 

"Look,"  said  Ivan. 

"We  are  making  a  snow-girl,"  said  Mary. 

On  the  ball  of  snow  which  stood  for  a  head 
they  made  the  nose  and  the  chin.  Then  they 
put  two  little  holes  for  the  eyes.  As  Ivan 
finished  the  work,  oh,  wonderful,  the  figure 
became  alive !  He  felt  a  warm  breath  come 
from  its  lips.  Ivan  drew  back,  and  looked. 
The  child  had  sparkling  eyes,  and  there  was 
a  smile  upon  its  lips. 

"What  is  this?  "  cried  Ivan,  making  the  sign 
of  the  cross. 

The  snow  figure  bent  its  head  as  if  it  were 
alive,  and  stirred  its  little  arms  and  legs  in 
the  snow  as  if  it  were  a  real  child. 


336        THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

"Ivan!  Ivan!"  cried  Mary,  trembling  with 
joy.  "Heaven  has  heard  our  prayers!"  and 
she  threw  herself  on  the  child,  and  covered  her 
with  kisses. 

The  snow  fell  away  from  the  little  girl  like 
the  shell  from  a  chicken. 

"Ah,  my  dear  Snyegurka!"  cried  Mary, 
embracing  the  long-wished-for  and  unexpected 
child,  and  she  carried  her  off  into  the  cottage. 

Ivan  had  much  to  do  to  recover  himself, 
he  was  so  surprised,  and  Mary  was  foolish 
with  joy. 

Snyegurka  grew  hour  by  hour,  and  became 
more  and  more  beautiful.  Ivan  and  Mary 
were  overjoyed,  and  their  hut  was  full  of  life 
and  merriment.  The  village  girls  were  always 
there,  playing  with  Snyegurka,  dressing  her, 
chattering  with  her,  singing  songs  to  her, 
teaching  her  all  they  knew.  Snyegurka  was 
very  clever;  she  noticed  everything,  and 
learned  things  quickly.  During  that  winter 
she  grew  as  big  as  a  three-year-old  child.  She 
understood  things,  and  when  she  spoke  her 
voice  was  so  sweet  that  one  could  have  listened 
to  it  forever.  She  was  amiable,  obedient,  and 
affectionate.     Her  skin  was  white,  her  hair 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK  337 

the  color  of  flax,  and  her  eyes  deep  blue; 
her  cheeks,  however,  had  no  rosy  flush  in 
them,  for  she  had  no  blood,  but  she  was 
so  good  and  so  amiable  that  every  one  loved 
her. 

"You  see,"  said  Mary,  "what  joy  Heaven 
has  given  us  in  our  old  age." 

"Heaven  be  thanked,"  responded  Ivan. 

At  last  the  winter  was  ended,  and  the  spring 
sun  shone  down  and  warmed  the  earth.  The 
snow  melted,  the  green  grass  sprang  up  in  the 
fields,  and  the  lark  sang  high  up  in  the  sky. 
The  village  girls  went  singing, 

' '  Sweet  spring,  how  did  you  come  to  us  ? 
How  did  you  come  ? 
Did  you  come  on  a  plow  or  on  a  harrow  ?" 

Snyegurka,  however,  became  very  sad. 
"What  is  the  matter  with  you,  my  dear 
child?"  said  Mary,  drawing  her  to  her  and 
caressing  her.  "Are  you  not  well?  You 
are  not  merry.  Has  an  evil  eye  glanced  on 
you?" 

"No,"  answered  Snyegurka,  "it  is  noth- 
ing, mother.     I  am  quite  well." 

The  last  snow  of  the  winter  had  melted 
and  disappeared.  Flowers  sprang  up  in  all 
22 


338        THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

the  gardens  and  fields.  In  the  woods  the 
nightingale  and  all  the  birds  sang,  and  all 
the  world  seemed  very  happy,  save  Snye- 
gurka,  who  became  more  and  more  sad.  She 
would  run  away  from  her  companions  and 
hide  herself  from  the  sun  in  dark  nooks,  like 
a  timid  flower  under  the  trees.  She  liked 
nothing  save  playing  by  the  waterside  under 
the  dark  willows.  She  seemed  to  enjoy  only 
the  cool  and  the  shower.  At  nighttime  she 
was  happy;  and  when  a  good  storm  occurred, 
a  fierce  hailstorm,  she  was  as  pleased  with  the 
drops  as  if  they  had  been  pearls.  When  the 
sun  broke  forth  again — when  the  hail  was 
melted — then  Snyegurka  began  to  weep 
bitterly. 

The  spring  ended.  The  summer  came,  and 
the  feast  of  St.  John  was  at  hand.  The  girls 
were  going  to  play  in  the  woods,  and  they 
called  for  Snyegurka  to  go  with  them. 

Mary  was  afraid  to  let  her  go,  but  she 
thought  that  the  outing  might  do  her  child 
good,  so  she  got  her  ready,  embraced  her, 
and  said: 

"Go,  my  child,  and  play  with  your  friends; 
and  you,  my  daughters,  look  well  after  her. 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK  339 


You  know  I  love  her  better  than  the  apple 
of  my  eye." 

"We  will,"  cried  they  all,  and  they  ran  off 
together  to  the  woods.  There  they  plucked 
the  wild  flowers,  made  themselves  wreaths, 
and  sang  songs. 

When  the  sun  was  setting  they  made  a  fire 
of  dry  grass,  and  placed  themselves  in  a  row 
beside  it,  each  of  them  having  a  crown  of 
flowers  on  her  head. 

"Look  at  us,"  said  they  to  Snyegurka, 
"how  we  run,  and  follow  us,"  and  then  they 
began  to  sing  and  to  jump,  around  and  over 
the  little  fire. 

All  of  a  sudden  they  heard,  behind  them,  a 
sigh.  "Ah!" 

They  looked  about  them,  and  then  at  one 
another.  There  was  nothing  to  be  seen. 
They  looked  again,  and  found  that  Snyegurka 
was  no  longer  among  them. 

"She  has  hidden  herself,"  cried  they. 
Then  they  looked  for  her,  calling  out  and 
shouting  her  name,  but  could  not  find  her; 
there  was  no  answer. 

"Where  can  she  be?  She  must  have  gone 
home,"  said  they. 


340  THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

They  ran  back  to  the  village,  but  there  no 
no  one  had  seen  Snyegurka.  All  the  folk 
searched  during  the  next  day  and  the  day 
following.  They  went  through  all  the  woods, 
they  looked  through  every  thicket,  but  no 
trace  of  the  child  was  discovered. 

Ivan  and  Mary  were  inconsolable,  and  for 
a  long  time  did  the  poor  mother  seek  her 
child  in  the  woods,  crying,  "  Snyegurka,  my 
sweet,  come  to  me!" 

Sometimes  she  thought  she  could  hear 
the  voice  of  her  child  replying  to  her;  but 
no,  it  was  not  Snyegurka. 

"What  could  have  become  of  her?"  folk 
asked  one  another.   "Can  a  wild  beast  have  v 
carried  her  off  into   the  woods?  Has  some 
bird  of  prey  flown  off  with  her?  " 

No  beast  had  carried  her  off,  nor  had  a 
bird  of  prey  flown  away  with  her.  When 
she  began  to  run  with  her  companions  she 
suddenly  changed  into  a  light  vapor,  and  was 
carried  up  into  heaven. 

W.  W.  Gibbings. 


SUGGESTIONS  TO  TEACHERS 

Many  books  of  stories  have  been  compiled  for  chil- 
dren, but  in  general  the  editor  has  had  in  mind  the 
interest  of  the  particular  collection  of  stories  rather 
than  the  development  of  the  stories  themselves  as 
corresponding  to  the  child's  growth.  Also  the  selec- 
tion and  collection  of  folk  tales  is  so  interesting  in 
itself  that  often  the  editor  uses  the  story  with  the 
historic  or  folk  value  only  in  mind.  Not  infrequently 
from  this  point  of  view  a  story  is  included  of  great 
worth,  although  not  altogether  suitable  to  the  children 
for  whom  the  book  was  primarily  intended. 

On  the  other  hand,  when  writers  prepare  books  of 
tales,  having  in  mind  children  of  a  certain  age,  they 
make  the  mistake  of  thinking  that  the  story  must  be 
desiccated  or  pulverized  or  otherwise  diluted  for  these 
small  and  inexperienced  people — with  the  disastrous 
result  that  the  book  loses  all  literary  value.  It  is  in 
the  matter  and  manner  of  the  story  that  the  corre- 
spondence must  be  found,  not  in  the  emasculation  of  it. 

The  compilers  of  this  volume  have  given  much 
time  to  the  study  of  children  as  well  as  to  the  study 
of  stories  for  children,  and  they  aim  to  supply  a  collec- 
tion which  in  some  measure  follows  the  psychology 
of  story  telling  as  well  as  the  growth  of  the  child- 
mind,  and  the  book  should  be  studied  with  these  aims 
in  view. 

The  name  of  the  book  was  advisedly  chosen.     It  is 

34i 


342        THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

a  story  teller's  book  because  the  elementary  literary 
interest  responds  more  fruitfully  to  the  telling  of 
stories  than  to  the  reading  of  stories  to  the  small 
listener.  No  one  can  read  a  story  as  he  can  tell  it. 
Indeed,  the  formal  dependence  on  the  written  symbol 
takes  spontaneity  and  force  from  almost  any  commu- 
nication. The  younger  and  more  primitive  the  listener, 
the  more  surely  one  finds  this  to  be  true. 

In  order  to  appreciate  the  educational  value  of 
story  telling,  study  the  beginnings  of  literature  and 
discover  the  fact  that  they  were  invariably  oral.  The 
Barbarians,  Celts,  Greeks,  Gauls,  Britons,  Saxons, 
Normans,  French,  Latins,  Italians  all  had  their  story 
tellers,  declaimers,  bards,  minnesingers,  troubadours, 
and  the  poor  had  their  old  wives,  peddlers,  or  traveling 
scholars  who  paid  for  their  shelter  by  their  enter- 
tainment. This  has  persisted  even  down  to  very 
recent  times,  and  at  present  in  remote  or  primitive 
places  we  can  find  the  custom  still  alive. 

Words  are  for  the  ear.  The  only  reason  that  they 
are  ever  written  is  that  they  may  be  saved  for  those 
yet  to  come,  or  that  they  may  travel  beyond  the  reach 
of  the  voice.  Therefore  these  first  stories  should  be 
told,  and  the  habit  thus  established  should  be  carried 
on  through  all  the  years  of  growth,  the  stories  gradually 
increasing  in  power  and  meaning  until  the  great  sagas 
of  Germany,  Ireland,  Ancient  England,  Greece,  Israel, 
and  of  all  countries  that  have  contributed  an  epic  of 
beauty  and  of  vitality,  shall  rejoice  the  listening  minds 
and  hearts  of  youth. 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK  343 

The  natural  impulse  of  speech  in  elementary  narra- 
tive form  is  to  become  rhythmic.  Thus  it  is  more 
easily  memorized,  and  the  accent  and  meter  are 
smoother  and  more  flowing  to  the  ear.  It  holds  the 
attention  better,  and  the  listener  follows  the  story 
with  less  effort.  In  the  stories  in  this  book  the  first 
to  be  given  are  short,  simple,  and  strongly  rhythmic, 
often  containing  verses  or  verse  forms. 

For  all  children  the  first  literature  is  the  nursery 
rhyme,  and  all  books  for  little  children  are  in  verse  — 
Teddy-Bear  books,  Brownies,  Golliwogs,  Kewpies, 
Circus  Books,  and  so  on,  ad  infinitum.  For  this  reason 
many  short  ballads  and  poems  have  been  included 
here,  and  these  should  be  repeated  often  to  the  chil- 
dren until  they  learn  them  unconsciously. 

Note  the  development  of  the  rhythmic  form  in  the 
stories.  The  Baby  Ray  stories  are  almost  all  verse; 
the  first  in  cumulative  form,  the  second  with  the  allit- 
erative repetition  which  suggests  a  drowsy  acquiescence. 

"With  a  leap,  leap,  leap, 
Went  to  see  if  Baby  Ray  was  asleep,  sleep,  sleep," 

and  the   quiet   voice   and  insistence   bring   a   gentle 
response  in  quietude. 

Josephine  Daskam  Bacon's  charming  little  verses 
supply  the  same  atmosphere  of  a  rhythm  of  musical 
sound. 

"And  one  slips  over,  and  one  comes  next," 
"And  over  they  go,  and  over  they  go," 
"But  one  runs  over,  and  one  comes  next," 

and  we  hear  of  the  gray  and  the  white,  and  the  good 


344        THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

little,  gray  little  sheep  until  voice  and  flowing,  repeated 
words  suggest  a  restful  stillness. 

The  Arabella  and  Araminta  stories  supply  a  prose 
rhythm  still  chiefly  objective  and  largely  humorous. 
We  get  the  rhythm  of  the  pictures  in  vivid  imagery, 
and  the  contrast  and  color  supplied  by  the  repetition 
of  incident  with  slight  variation. 

These  are  the  Dromios  of  nursery  literature,  but 
without  their  grotesquerie  and  with  an  affectionate 
playfulness  of  mood.  Arabella  with  her  white  kitty 
and  Araminta  with  her  black  kitty,  Annabel  and  Lilla- 
bel,  one  with  a  red  ball,  one  with  a  blue  ball;  one  goes 
to  mamma's  lap,  and  one  to  papa's,  and  so  on  through 
the  little  stories, — a  rhythmic  incantation  which 
charms  the  sense  and  pleases  the  fancy. 

In  the  next  group  of  stories  the  rhythm  is  cumula- 
tive— the  historic  form  which  never  loses  its  interest. 
Here  we  have  the  tale  gathering  force  by  the  addition 
of  link  after  link,  until  the  climax  is  reached  and  we 
watch  the  story  unfold,  following  each  step  until  the 
mind  satisfies  itself  with  the  rounded  conclusion. 

Then  comes  the  more  developed  group  of  stories  of 
triple  incident,  reaching  its  climax  in  the  third,  each 
repeating  some  characteristic  of  the  preceding  incident, 
but  always  adding  the  slight  push  that  will  result  in 
the  secret  of  the  tale.  In  "The  Story  of  the  Three 
Bears,"  "The  Straw  Ox,"  "Johnny  and  the  Three 
Goats,"  "The  Three  Little  Pigs,"  the  rhythm  delights, 
and  yet  at  the  same  time  provides  the  most  elemental 
form  of  true  plot. 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK  345 

In  the  later  stories  in  the  book  we  find  the  rhythm 
of  cause  and  consequence,  as  in  "The  Half-Chick"  or 
"The  Hop-about  Man,"  and  at  last  stories  of  motive 
and  act  or  feeling  and  expression,  as  in  "Oeyvind 
and  Marit"  or  "Anders'  Red  Cap." 

In  the  later  stories  these  types  of  rhythmic  develop- 
ment are  further  exemplified  and  become  more  com- 
plex, being  embroidered  with  incident  and  leading  with 
more  subtle  detail  to  the  climax — as  in  the  fairy  tales 
of  "One-Eye,  Two-Eyes,  and  Three-Eyes,"  "The  Hut 
in  the  Wood,"  and  "The  Greedy  Shepherd." 

The  matter  of  the  stories  deserves  some  comment. 
But  now  a  word  as  to  length.  The  first  few  stories  in 
the  book  are  very  short,  since  the  power  to  listen  is 
something  that  must  be  learned  and  must  grow.  That 
is  one  of  the  reasons  why  the  rhyme  supplies  the  best 
form  of  story  for  the  undeveloped  mind.  The  joy  of 
listening  to  a  stanza  or  two  is  not  marred  by  forced 
effort.  But  this  power  of  concentration  for  longer 
periods  must  be  trained,  and  so  through  the  little 
story  we  come  to  the  longer  one.  The  Prince  Dimple 
stories,  the  Baby  Ray  stories,  and  the  verses  may  be 
told  to  the  little  fellow  seated  in  your  lap,  or  held  in 
your  arms  after  his  bedtime  romp;  they  are  the  "just 
a  minute"  stories.  Or  they  may  be  the  vehicle  for 
unifying  in  feeling  and  interest  the  little  group  of 
neophytes  who  are  making  their  first  essay  with  the 
unknown  world  of  the  schoolroom,  or  perhaps  for  the 
little  troop  of  stammerers  in  a  foreign  tongue,  on  whose 
ears  the  unknown  words  fall  with  unfamiliar  sound, 


346        THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

and  who  will  slowly  appreciate  it  by  the  help  of  the 
simple  form  and  the  welcome  repetitions, 

The  stories  and  verses  increase  in  length  until  at 
the  close  of  the  book  we  find  the  ballad  and  story  in 
two  or  more  parts,  where  the  interest  must  be  carried 
over  from  day  to  day.  It  is  better,  however,  in  tell- 
ing these  to  give  the  first  part  only  on  the  first  day. 
The  second  day,  before  giving  the  second  part,  refresh 
the  memory  by  a  word  or  two  of  introduction,  and 
wait  until  the  third  day  before  giving  the  whole.  Some- 
times, if  the  attention  is  not  wandering  or  unsteady 
by  the  end  of  the  second  part,  it  might  be  possible  to 
repeat  the  whole  of  the  story  on  the  second  day.  If, 
however,  the  attention  has  been  held  long  enough,  it 
would  be  well  to  repeat  the  story  again  in  the  two  or 
more  parts  before  giving  the  whole. 

In  matter,  study  the  incidents  of  the  stories.  In 
the  beginning  they  are  all  stories  of  simple  happenings 
that  parallel  the  uneventful  course  of  any  little  child's 
life.  His  feeling  is  so  objective  that  he  does  not  recog- 
nize himself,  and  the  reflection  of  his  daily  life  is  valu- 
able and  awakening  as  far  as  it  ought  to  be.  He  is 
not  ready  for  fancy,  as  he  has  not  yet  found  his  own 
place  in  the  passing  show  which  surrounds  him.  In 
the  nursery  rhyme,  which  was  his  first  literature,  the 
incidents  were  unconnected  and  irrelevant  pictures. 
But  in  this  group,  true  connections  are  established,  and 
that  is  a  sufficient  step  in  advance. 

Soon,  however,  the  child  suspects  the  representation 
of  life,  and,  if  continued  too  long,  it  would  make  him 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK  347 

self-conscious.  Therefore,  the  homely  type  of  folk 
tale  enters  on  the  stage  of  fancy.  The  incidents  arc 
still  familiar,  but  the  characters  are  not  human.  Here 
we  find  bears,  pigs,  sticks,  fire,  wind,  goats,  bees,  and 
so  forth  actors  in  the  drama,  living  in  houses,  cooking 
dinners,  taking  walks,  buying  and  selling,  and  living 
in  a  very  domestic  world  quite  devoid  of  magic  but 
also  with  no  people  in  it,  except  the  one  or  two  who 
stray  in  merely  as  accessories,  not  principals. 

All  peoples  in  a  primitive  stage  of  thought  have  used 
this  form  of  expression.  Interesting  study  of  it  may 
be  found  by  the  reading  of  oriental  tales  of  animals, 
fables,  the  mummeries  of  the  Middle  Ages,  and  many 
of  the  representations  in  the  miracle  and  mystery  plays. 

Later  in  the  book  may  be  found  the  story  containing 
fancy,  but  not  fairies  or  magic,  and  also  one  or  two 
poetic  tales  foreshadowing  a  world  larger  and  more 
complex  in  interest  and  possibility. 

Some  of  the  explanation  of  the  matter-of-fact  atti- 
tude of  some  children,  as  well  as  the  over-sensitive 
feeling  of  others,  toward  the  fairy  tale  is  a  result  of  a 
premature  diet  which  caused  a  slight  mental  indi- 
gestion. But  when  the  imaginative  appetite  arrives 
it  must  be  given  the  right  sustenance,  and  in  the  later 
stories  the  wonder  of  romance  is  found  with  its  magic 
happenings  and  delightful  possibilities  bringing  the 
prince  and  princess  at  last  to  the  fulfillment  of  their 
golden  destinies. 

The  ethical  development  of  the  tales  is  well  worth 
study.     Direct  moral  teaching  is  hardly  to  be  found 


348  THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

in  any  of  them.  Possibly  the  most  marked  is  in 
"Mabel  on  Midsummer  Day,"  "The  Hop-about 
Man,"  and  "Who  stole  the  Bird's  Nest?" 

But  cause  and  consequence  are  strongly  emphasized 
in  many  of  the  tales,  and  in  the  earlier  stories  the  mere 
presentation  of  life  in  wholesome,  natural  pictures 
provides  standards  which  will  later  awaken  comparison 
and  criticism  of  right  and  wrong  actions.  This  too 
must  not  be  forced,  and  since  the  child  is  unmoral  at 
first,  and  is  gradually  learning  by  means  of  true  expe- 
rience the  right  relations  of  life  and  conduct,  the  only 
rational,  ethical  training  we  can  give  him  through  his 
literary  awakening  is  by  supplying  him  with  a  reflec- 
tion of  his  own  experience,  though  in  a  wider  and  more 
complete  form.  In  time  he  will  learn  to  make  his  own 
applications,  and  the  truths  will  be  more  clearly 
apprehended  because  he  grew  to  their  understanding 
instead  of  being  forced  into  them  or  overwhelmed  by 
them. 

The  ethical  value  of  the  fairy  tales  is  that  they  are 
always  based  on  the  idea  of  poetic  justice.  The  good 
and  the  beautiful  are  one,  the  ugly  and  the  wicked  arc 
counterparts,  and  the  "fair  and  wise  and  good"  are 
always  triumphant  in  the  final  outcome.  This  is  the 
true  experience  for  these  beginners.  As  we  grow  older, 
the  triumph  of  the  ultimate  outcome  is  placed  beyond 
the  confines  of  experience,  but  it  is  still  there  and  to  the 
child  must  be  manifest  in  the  visible  climax. 

Study  the  close  of  the  stories.  Frequently  there  is 
what  might  be  called  a  negative  ending,  but  never  a 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK  349 

sentimental  one,  nor  one  which  escapes  the  consequence 
which  legitimately  should  follow  the  cause.  This  is 
the  best  element  of  ethical  training  for  any  of  us.  If 
we  would  believe  that  the  deed  returns  on  the  doer, 
and  that  the  possibility  of  standing  from  under  while 
the  rock  that  we  have  loosened  falls  on  another  is 
not  in  the  scheme  of  spiritual  dominion,  we  would 
establish  for  ourselves  one  of  the  most  fundamental 
regulative  concepts  of  moral  conduct.  But  we  think 
we  can  cheat  the  universe,  and  this  is  often  because, 
through  false  sentiment,  the  idea  of  the  universe  was 
allowed  to  cheat  us  in  our  first  excursions  into  inquiry 
in  childhood. 

These  consequences  must  arrive  in  the  most  objec- 
tive and  impersonal  manner,  with  no  extraneous  appeal 
to  the  feelings,  but  when  the  little  pig  disobeys  the 
precepts  of  wisdom  the  old  wolf  eats  him;  when  the 
foolish  Chicken  Licken  makes  a  mountain  of  a  mole 
hill,  and  all  her  friends  run  after  her,  carrying  foolish 
gossip  to  centers  of  prominence,  gaining  cheap  noto- 
riety, the  shrewd  wayfarer  whom  they  meet  will  profit 
by  their  foolishness.  The  spirit  of  idle  curiosity  and 
careless  self-indulgence  will  have  to  save  itself  by  flight 
and  disappearance  from  the  indignation  and  resent- 
ment of  the  law-abiding  bears  who  have  been  inter- 
fered with.  Each  story  must  work  out  logically  to 
its  appointed  purpose. 

A  fine  sense  of  humor  is  a  necessary  requirement  for 
the  understanding  both  of  children  and  of  the  stories 
for  them.     It  would  be  impossible  to  deal  adequately, 


350  THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

in  the  space  available  here,  with  the  fun  and  humor 
and  unconscious  satire  in  these  stories,  for  every  real 
story  for  children  contains  one  of  these.  But  a  word 
must  be  said  with  regard  to  one  or  two  of  the  stories 
or  verses  that  are  most  often  misunderstood.  Such 
rhymes  and  stories  as  "The  Robber  Kitten,"  "Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Spikky  Sparrow,"  "The  Street  Musicians," 
"Mr.  Miacca,"  and  "Titty  Mouse  and  Tatty  Mouse" 
must  be  recognized  as  frankly  humorous.  Their 
extravagance,  their  crudity,  the  ludicrous  effect  of 
the  images  they  evoke,  are  all  finely  comic,  and  in  a 
quaint,  wholesome,  objective  way  that  is  an  excellent 
literary  training  and  the  best  kind  of  fun  for  such 
primitive  minds.  Picture  to  yourself,  in  "The  Street 
Musicians,"  these  four  old  creatures,  the  donkey,  the 
dog,  the  cat,  and  the  cock,  away  on  their  travels, 
following  each  other  down  the  road  and  planning  to 
be  street  musicians,  in  itself  a  satire.  Then  picture, 
mounted  on  each  other's  backs,  the  quaint  pinnacle  of 
fun,  each  uttering  his  raucous  bray,  bark,  call,  or  crow. 
Then  the  effect — this  hideous  concert  frightens  those 
fearsome  desperadoes  so  that  they  take  to  their  heels 
and  leave  the  friends  in  possession.  And  last,  the 
epilogue,  which  is  funnier  still  —  the  awesome  story 
told  by  the  robber,  and  the  misconception  of  these 
feeble  creatures,  transforming  them  into  powerful 
members  of  society  and  leaving  them  in  the  enjoyment 
of  all  that  was  so  easily  gained. 

Use  these  stories  fearlessly,  and  tell  them  without 
explanation,  only  enjoying  and  appreciating  the  fun 


THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK  351 

and  meaning  yourself.  If  you  do  so  the  children  will 
soon  catch  their  spirit.  Nothing  in  the  book  is  more 
valuable  than  the  ballads,  because  to  the  romance  of 
the  tale  they  add  the  element  of  poetic  expression. 
We  constantly  regret  the  waning  appreciation  of 
verse,  and  yet  we  do  nothing  to  encourage  the  taste 
for  it  in  childhood.  Poetic  feeling  is  instinct  in  chil- 
dren, and  if  accustomed  to  listening  to  the  accent  of 
verse  and  to  this  lyric  interpretation  of  story,  as  they 
grow  older  such  ballad  treasures  as  Marmion,  The 
Lady  of  the  Lake,  The  Idylls  of  the  King,  and  the  many 
others  too  little  known  and  loved,  will  become  their 
natural  heritage  and  poetry  the  daily  necessity  of 
their  lives. 

But  this  is  the  most  important  precept  that  can  be 
given:  The  telling  of  the  story  is  yours.  Love  it, 
understand  it,  enjoy  the  telling,  let  yourself  interpret 
it  simply  and  sincerely  by  voice,  expression,  and  spirit, 
and  your  work  is  done.  Out  of  your  little  listeners 
you  will  make  lovers  of  everything  that  is  fine  in  liter- 
ature and  life. 

But  your  enunciation  must  be  clear,  your  voice 
sympathetic  and  flexible,  your  heart  and  mind  sensi- 
tive, and  you  must  have  the  courage  to  persevere. 
Do  not  feel  that  telling  a  story  once  will  be  sufficient 
for  either  you  or  the  children.  Tell  it  again  and  again, 
until  it  is  yours  and  you  know  all  that  is  in  it.  The 
children  will  listen  with  ever  growing  appreciative 
attention  and  delight,  and  you  will  have  that  best 
reward  of  the  true  story  teller, —  the  sigh  of  rapture 


352  THE  STORY  TELLER'S  BOOK 

when  the  story  time  comes,  the  earnest  "  Tell  it  again," 
and,  best  of  all,  the  listener  at  last  repeating  the 
words  with  you  and  forestalling  your  climax  by  joyous 
anticipation. 


WKKBBBmmm 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 

Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recalL 


MAY  3 1 1967  1  5 
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